


done with having dreams

by loyaulte_me_lie



Series: the heart is a muscle [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kid Fic, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Mutual Pining, Older Les Amis, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-29 08:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 48,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: "He’s been seven years with neither hide nor hair of them, seven years to relax, to get complacent, to stop looking over his shoulder as much as he’d used to. Fuck. He’s got to get Enjolras out right now. "//assassins + magic + adorable children + e/r failing at communicating. what could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well this happened. Started off with me being like "I want to write a cute E/R fic" and then I wrote a draft and Marie, my best friend/partner in crime & fangirling/beta reader of the century, looks at it and says, "you know, it could do with being at least twice the length." Three months of giggling and headcanoning and adding AU after AU after AU, here we are!  
> Anyway. Title is from "The Last of the Real Ones" by Fall Out Boy, because that song sums up E/R for me, and the series title is from the eponymous song by Gang of Youths.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of a past abusive relationship, and then all the general stuff that tends to come with R, and the general stuff that comes with assassins. If there's anything else that I haven't spotted, please let me know and I'll warn for it here too!

**August 2018 | Paris**

Grantaire is woken up by a knock at the door. He wonders if he’s dreaming, but no, his dreams are rarely this uneventful. His mouth tastes claggy and he slowly unsticks his eyelids, breathing through the usual headache and nausea. The knock comes again, and he lurches upright. There’s no accompanying shouts of “Police, open up!” so it can’t be anything _that_ serious; any other assassin would have just blown the door down, picked the lock, or swung in through the window depending on their mood. None of his friends ever knock and none of the people who want him dead would ever alert him to their presence so it must just be someone normal. A normal. Been days since he’s seen one of them. He glances around the room to double check all the weaponry is hidden away. Just tubes and paint splodges and several half-smeared canvasses, the usual untidy artist vibe he likes to project. Cool. He yawns and shuffles over to the door, puts the chain on and cracks it open.

“What?”  

The incredibly beautiful man on the other side of the door meets his gaze implacably. As does the little girl balanced on his hip. “Hello,” he says. “Grantaire, right? Lucien Grantaire?”

“Who’s asking?” Grantaire’s on autopilot. His eyes skate across the sharp cheekbones, the arrow-straight nose, the way the light from the flickering hall lightbulb drips through his hair and rolls off his high, pale forehead. What a face that would be to paint, perhaps dressed classically, an angel come to life and standing in his dingy hallway. Something at the back of Grantaire’s brain wonders if he’s seen this man before, but just looking at him, it could just as easily be in the background of a movie as in real life. There are no ugly people on the silver screen unless they’re the butt of a joke.

“I apologise. René Enjolras. I moved in downstairs a couple of days ago. There’s been an incident at work, and I don’t know anyone who could babysit Marianne for a few hours. The landlady told me about you when I moved in, so I wondered…”

Babysitting, urgh. Grantaire wonders if Mme Richelieu mentioned that the last time Grantaire babysit her kids, one of them ended up in hospital with meningitis. Probably not. It was a stressful evening - blue light ambulances and Mme Richelieu not picking up her phone because what a fucking night to go to the theatre. Grantaire’s used to vomit, but it’s much less gross when it’s a present from your stomach instead of a whining child’s. He’s managed to avoid a repeat incident by being “busy” whenever Mme Richelieu asks, but he think she’s cottoned on to his amazing avoidance tactics. Perhaps this is a punishment from the gods, a beautiful man begging for help who’ll actually turn into a harpy and smite Grantaire if he refuses. This kid doesn’t look like the kind that will be left to her own devices either, and Grantaire had _plans_ tonight, namely watching the new Daredevil season, getting completely smashed, and passing out. Which, to be fair, he can still do later. It’s not like he’s going to be doing much sleeping. A couple of hours won’t hurt, and it’s something to tell Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet that’ll get them off his back. Bonus points; he won’t be smote. René Enjolras is still looking at him through the crack in the door, and Grantaire belatedly realises he’s still got the chain on and he’s still acting like a suspicious creep. The holstered knife in the back of his waistband digs into his skin. He unhooks the chain, opens the door wider and leans on the doorframe, aiming for casual and probably landing in total-and-utter-mess. Marianne gives her father a look like, “Dad are you really leaving me with this sketchy character?” which René Enjolras totally ignores.

“How long will you be?” he asks.

Enjolras shrugs. “No idea. A few hours, hopefully.”

“A few hours. What do I get out of it?”

“I can pay you,” Enjolras says immediately. “I know it’s short notice, and I’m very appreciative.”

“Nah, it’s cool, I was just joking. It’ll be fine. How old are you, Marianne?”

“Seven,” the kid says, giving him another dubious look. She clings tighter to Enjolras’ neck.

“Seven. Awesome. I am exactly thirty years older than you, that’s cool isn’t it?”

Marianne raises her eyebrow, and René Enjolras smiles, and god that’s a flooring thing, isn’t it, that smile? Grantaire could paint that face, that smile, for the rest of his life and never _ever_ get bored. “When I’m thirty-seven, I’m going to run for president,” she announces in the self-assured way beloved small children have since time immemorial.

“Well,” Grantaire pretends to consider. René Enjolras is looking at his kid like she’s the most wonderful thing in the world. “I’d vote for you. How about we order pizza and you tell me all about your campaign, and we’ll let Dad get to where he needs to go, huh?”

 “Okay,” Marianne says. “Dad, you can put me down now.”

Rene Enjolras gives him a key to the apartment and shows him around, briefly. The fridge is full of distressingly healthy-looking things, and the bookcase weighed down with books bigger than Grantaire’s head that have long, blurring titles. “This is my number,” René Enjolras says, scribbling something down and leaving it on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “But this is quite a sensitive matter, so only in emergencies, okay? I’ll hopefully be back by eleven.”

“Sure…” Grantaire says. René Enjolras smiles again, and then he’s gone, and Marianne has climbed onto one of the bar stools. There’s a photo of her and Enjolras and another man with dark brown skin, short curly black hair, and glasses stuck on the board. Probably Enjolras’ partner or boyfriend or husband, by the fact they have arms around each other’s shoulders and the guy is _literally everywhere_ now Grantaire looks, loads of photos of him and Marianne and Enjolras when Marianne was much smaller than she is now. They’re a cute little family. Considering the fact she’s black too, Marianne’s obviously more related to the other guy than to Enjolras, unless they decided to adopt. Not that Grantaire really wants to know. Enjolras is obviously not straight, but he’s not available and for the last damn time, Grantaire, people who do what he does don’t get attached _or_ attracted to people who get killed. It’s not a sensible life plan. 

“Pizza,” Marianne demands. “You promised.”

***

Enjolras returns about an hour after he promised, two hours after Grantaire got Marianne into bed. They’ve been having a surprisingly fine time, watching Disney despite the fact Marianne seems to relish tearing the Disney princesses apart for how unrealistic they are and how they promote the cisheteropatriarchy. She pronounces it very slowly and deliberately. Grantaire thinks it’s cute and also thinks she’s going to need to tone is down a little bit before she gets ripped to shreds by the piranhas that pass for other small children at elementary school. He tries to tell her that and she just blinks at him and then acts like he hasn’t said anything, which to be honest, relatable. Grantaire is now sprawled across the sofa, sketching idly on a piece of paper. Disney princesses re-imagined as a kickass warrior of some kind. Marianne, look what you’ve caused. He doesn’t move when he hears the key, too engrossed in the drawing, doesn’t actually realise Enjolras is home until he’s being loomed over.

“Yo,” he says, shading a curl of the princess-warrior’s hair.

“How was she?” Enjolras asks. His suit is just as neat as it was earlier, despite the fact it is nearly midnight and no-one should be at work at midnight, unless they are an assassin casing out a target’s house, in which case that is a completely logical time to be working. Grantaire would know, he’s done plenty of it in his time.

“Hilarious. I could watch her destroy princess tropes forever. It’s better than TV.”

“Combeferre and I have taught her well,” Enjolras says. The lines of his shoulders have relaxed slightly. Grantaire pushes himself upright, puts the drawing on the side table for Marianne to find in the morning. Combeferre must be the name of the other guy, in the photos, the husband or partner or boyfriend or whatever.

“Yes, you’re certainly raising yourself a little social justice warrior. How was the emergency meeting?”

“Productive.” Enjolras yawns. “Are you sure I can’t pay you?”

“Yeah, positive. You look knackered. Go to bed.”

“Thank you, again. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. Probably see you around sometime.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods. “Goodnight.”

“Night.” Grantaire offers a two-finger salute and takes himself out of the door. Nearly the second he gets upstairs, his phone chimes and he opens the message, his brain translating the code from the private message. Someone wants someone to go scare the bejeezus out of some politician asshole who's smacking his wife around, some guy called Mabeuf. Grantaire scrolls down the information, considering. He’s got a tidy little sum stashed away from the string of jobs he did in January and February, but there’s no harm in having some more money stashed for a rainy day. He likes it here, but chances are he won’t get to stay much longer than the end of the year. He’ll get caught up to eventually, will have to move on. The original poster is paying well for such a low-level politician, and low-level politicians tend to be predictable. He replies in the affirmative, and gets his laptop, starts to research his target, ignoring the usual sickening feeling that settles itself in the pit of his stomach. Last one, he tells himself, scrolling through the page on the government portal, knowing that it’s anything but. The lie calms the nausea down a little, and he swallows, hovering over the picture of an old man with a bristly grey beard. Last one. 

***

“My back hurts.” Grantaire slips into the barstool next to Bossuet. He’s the easiest person to spot in a crowd because not many people as young as him have a shiny brown head that reflects the lamplight like some weird too-big Christmas bauble. Again, Grantaire marvels at how Bossuet is still alive, and still more than fairly competent as his job despite a) sticking out like a sore thumb and b) having the clumsiness levels of a rhinoceros in ballet shoes on ice. “Why are we at this stupid student hipster bar, anyway?”

“Oh grandad, ready for retirement already? Musichetta chose it, take it up with her,” Bossuet grins into his drink.

“You’re sickening,” Grantaire informs him. “Where are your two better thirds anyway?”

“Right here,” a voice says just over Grantaire’s shoulder, and then someone is draping soft arms over his back, her breath brushing past his ear. Grantaire squirms, but Musichetta just holds on tighter. “Now, now, I haven’t seen you in weeks, surely I get a proper hug?”

“Eww, human contact,” Grantaire whines. Musichetta lets go, whacks him gently on the head and takes the barstool next to him, ordering a drink with a flash of smile that makes the bartender turn an interesting shade of beetroot. “Why are we at a hipster watering hole, anyway?”

“Contacts,” Musichetta says vaguely. “He’s a good one to know despite his unfortunate dress sense. I’m meeting him here later when you lot have taken a walk. How was the last job?”

“Usual. Buggered my back crawling around on the rooftops, though. Had to find a way in around the security cameras, paranoid bugger. Where’s Bahorel at the moment? I need to get my gun replaced soon.”

“Algeria. His eldest is starting secondary school, he wanted to be there to see them settled in.”

“Damn. I’ll have to go to Cochepaille. Oh well.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Musichetta says as the exact same time as Joly says, “I wouldn’t go to Cochepaille if he was the last merchant alive. His stuff’s dodgy, man.”

“Only because you found a worm in the ammo once,” Bossuet laughs.

“A worm! How does a worm get _in_ there? They were supposed to be sealed!”

“Magical worm powers,” Grantaire supplies. “It levitated. It gravitated.”

 “Boys,” Musichetta says, half-warning, still casing out the room. Grantaire doesn’t need to. From the second he walked in, he could tell you pretty much everything; exits, threats, potential weapons. It’s as easy as breathing, as unthought of as a heartbeat. He wonders, sometimes, how the normals must feel. What must it be like to walk into a room and just… _walk into a room w_ ith no suspicions and plans and awareness buzzing at the back of his mind; he considers it for a moment, and sighs. It would be too quiet, after so many years. Even if he retires, he’ll still see the world through this particular set of goggles. He’d still glance at the anorexic-thin girl leaning on the bar along from them and flirting with the bartender and think of the hundred ways he could kill her without leaving a trace.

“Spill me the rest of your news,” Joly snaps his fingers in front of Grantaire’s eyes. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“What makes you think I have news?”

“I refuse to believe you’ve only done one job in a whole six weeks since we last saw you.”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re so _boring._  Are you  _sure_ you don't want to come and work with us? We're doing a money-making job in South America next."

"I make a shit fourth wheel."

Joly sighs through his nose in the way he always does. "R. It'll be fun. Like a holiday. Don't you want a holiday?"

“I don't _need_ a holiday. I have done literally nothing apart from my last job and look after my new downstairs neighbour’s daughter for a night. My life is extremely boring, thank _god_.”

“New downstairs neighbour?” Joly drapes himself over Bossuet, and Grantaire watches them, a slight pang in his stomach. He drowns the rest of his glass, signals for another. The edges are coming off the world now, the light refracting a little less sharp. This is good. This is laughter and friends and stupid half-kept confidences, not the screech of tyres, the shatter of glass, the muffled thump of a silenced bullet. It's not the picking up the newspaper the other morning and seeing that Deputy Mabeuf had died, probably by suicide. Sure Grantaire didn't wrap the rope around the man's neck himself, but he might as well have done from the way Mabeuf was talking throughout their entire... _conversation_ last week. No, R, fuck's sake, stop it. He needs to compartmentalise, to match the bad with the good, just like normal people do. 

“Yep.”

“And…”

“And what? They must be pretty special if you agreed to babysit. I thought you’d sworn off it after Richelieu Junior ended up in hospital?”

Grantaire takes the new drink off the scraggly bartender, snorting internally at the stupid beard the man sports, wonders how much he’s going to say. Of course, the words slip out before he actually realises he’s said them. “Well, he’s gorgeous…” Doesn’t even cut it, the way Enjolras looks even in shitty fluorescent lighting like he’s going to grow a halo and a sword of justice.

“Eee!” Joly claps his hands together. “Gorgeous is a good start! Is he gay? Bi? Pan? Is he _nice_?”

“Nice sort of, queer yes, married.” Joly’s smile collapses, and Grantaire holds up a hand to stop him before he starts apologising. Saying the word “married” to friends makes it sound more real, better than the internal monologue that tries to start up whenever Grantaire starts even thinking about Enjolras. The sooner it sticks in his head, the less awkward it’s going to be. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone and your brain immediately providing several very interesting thoughts of what you _could_ be doing instead of just having a polite conversation. Alas, Enjolras is married, and life is not a KJ Charles novel, though he imagines Enjolras in period dress would be...no, _stop._ “It’s fine. Seriously. He’s very attractive, but I barely know the guy and he’s one of those holier-than-thou types, anyway. I mean you can tell that by the state of a) his fridge and b) his bookshelf and the fact he was at work at like, midnight. Bet his husband has _loads_ of fun with that. Anyway, I’d just fuck anything up anyway. You know that.”

“Don’t say that,” Bossuet says. “One day we’re going to find the person of your dreams, just you wait and see.”

Grantaire snorts so hard he sprays beer out of his nostrils and down the front of his shirt.

***

He gets back sloshed and late, weaving up the stairs and singing to himself, probably louder than it sounded in his head because on Enjolras’ landing the door opens and Enjolras pokes his head out, obviously annoyed until he sees it’s Grantaire.

“Evening,” he says, suddenly polite instead of pissed. “I just managed to get Marianne into bed, do you mind keeping it down?”

“Bit late for the kiddo, isn’t it, Apollo?” Grantaire slurs. Enjolras really looks like something else in this light and his smart white shirt, the sleeves rolled up over porcelain forearms. His tie is bright red and half undone. Enjolras frowns.

“What did you just call me?”

“Apollo, the sun-god. You’re looking pretty…” Grantaire squints. “Golden tonight.”

Enjolras evidently has no idea what to do with this, because he looks awkward all of a sudden, and Grantaire’s stomach decides that this is the perfect time to do an almighty roll and burp, like the rock and roll but less pleasant. If Grantaire were sober, he’d be mortified about this. They are _not_ at the stage of their relationship where they can burp in front of each other. Enjolras doesn’t react, to his credit, except to say: “I think you should probably get some rest.”

“Yeah…yeah…say hi to Marianne for me, kay?”

“I will. Goodnight.”

Upstairs, Grantaire ends up facedown on the bed, and the alcohol lets him close his eyes quickly, shortens the roll through his mind, the whispers in his ears, the screams the eyes the pleading begging...no. He rolls over and buries his face into his pillow, clenches his fists.  _No._ Happy thoughts. Not this. Anything but this,  _please._ Bossuet being an idiot, Musichetta screaming with laughter in the rain, little Marianne from downstairs ripping apart stereotypes with a look of fierce glee on her face. Happy thoughts, he thinks, holding onto them until his fingers ache. Happy thoughts. 

***

“And then we did maths, but I already know how to do division, so I finished early and the teacher ran out of things for me to do so I just had to sit and wait. She wouldn’t even let me go to the library to get another book out!”

“Did you finish the one you had last night?” Enjolras asks, fiddling with the key to the apartment building. It’s drizzling half-heartedly, and the daylight is leaking from the sky like air out of a punctured tyre. Marianne’s hand is still in his. Somewhere close, there’s a spike of energy; Enjolras ignores it. Nothing quite like working in the National Assembly to get used to people not saying what they really mean, and nothing like living in Paris for three months to get back used to the higher levels of ambient entropy. You develop a thick skin pretty fast.

“I finished it at breaktime. Some of the girls were playing Kiss Chase but I don’t consent to being kissed by a stupid smelly boy, so I just read instead.”

“We’ll have to go back to the public library this weekend, then, get out another stack.”

“Yay!”

Enjolras smiles down at her, enjoying how excited she is by even the thought of the library. Luckily she’s an easy child to please. That was the best thing he and Combeferre ever did, getting her into reading; of course it’s good for her sake too, opening her mind to all different worlds and viewpoints, but it makes his life easier too. There’s nothing quite like sitting and going through the papers from work on the sofa with Marianne curled up like a cat next to him, ploughing through her latest read, commenting every so often on the characters, her head resting against his arm. She lets go of his hand to scoop up the letters from their letter box and then flings herself up the stairs, round the bannister. Then: “Grantaire!”

Enjolras picks up his pace. Grantaire is indeed standing on their landing with his arms full of laundry, in a baggy, paint-splattered jumper, totally unshaven. Marianne has instantly launched into telling him about her day, and Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes over her head, torn between wanting to apologise for her and being ready to defend her. Neither are necessary. Grantaire just looks amused, is listening patiently, which is more than Enjolras expected. Of course, Marianne has been “Grantaire this, Grantaire that” ever since he babysat her for the first time, but to be honest, Enjolras had chalked that up to the pizza. Anyone who lets her get away with things that he and Combeferre don’t is bound to be an instant favourite. 

“Yo, Apollo,” Grantaire says. Enjolras has no idea where that nickname has come from, but Grantaire was drunk and who knows the depths of someone’s drunken mind. It’s not _particularly_ annoying, though Enjolras doesn’t like the fact Apollo is the god of colonists or his propensity for not listening when women say no; if he _had_ to choose a Greek deity to personify, he’d prefer it to be Athena, shared with Combeferre. They’d decided that when Enjolras had chosen to study battle magecraft and Combeferre went down the scholarly route. Two sides of the same coin, just like they always have been.

“Hello. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. The world keeps spinning. No exciting late-night assignations?”

“They’re not _assignations,_ ” Enjolras says, flushing. Assignation makes it sound like he’s having some sort of affair.

“Dad!” Marianne pulls at his suit jacket. “I forgot to say! Laure got a new kitten! Her mum brought it to the school gates to see us and it was so _cute_! Can I have a kitten?”

Enjolras looks down at Marianne’s hopeful upturned face, then up to Grantaire, who is smirking. He sighs. “It’s not really fair to have a kitten when we’re not home much.”

“But, but, but…” Marianne blinks her eyes in the way that gets most adults to do exactly what she wants.

“We’ll have this conversation over dinner,” Enjolras says firmly.

“Right, fascinating as this is, I need to get downstairs.” Grantaire holds out his fist to Marianne, and she bumps it, grinning. “See you both around, I’m sure.”

“Bye!” Marianne says. Enjolras echoes it. Grantaire gives another smirk and that irreverent salute thing he does before disappearing down the stairwell. Marianne starts talking about the kitten again.

***

The next time Enjolras shows up at his door is about three weeks later on a Sunday afternoon. It’s been about three weeks of smiles and nods and polite small-talk on the stairs. Grantaire has been drunk for about 75% of those encounters, but he’s pretty sure Enjolras has only noticed about 30% of the time. Sure he’s an alcoholic, but he functions; sometimes he gets out of bed. That's a pretty good start right? Bed is where he can hide from the mess that is his life, the loathing that eats away at his skin like some rare wasting disease.

Anyway, Grantaire is just back from another _conversation,_ convincing this political aide to stop spying for the Russian government and head back to wherever the hell she came from - he left her packing – god, people are getting angsty about holding politicians to account these days, that’s the second in a month – and he’s feeling pretty exhausted and ready to sit in bed with a six pack and watch mindless stupid TV and bleach his brain of what he's just done, of the fear in the woman's eyes as she'd come in to find him sitting on her counter fiddling with a knife, the gunshot and scream he'd heard from halfway down the block, but of course fate and Enjolras have other plans for him. There’s a knock at the door. He pulls on a loose shirt and takes the cold compress off his head and goes to answer it. When he sees that it’s Enjolras through the peephole, he doesn’t even bother putting the chain on.

“Yo,” he says, “babysitting duty again?””

“What happened to your _face_?” Enjolras frowns, and Grantaire starts internally panicking slightly, his brain working to come up with a plausible excuse. He cannot say ‘oh I was crawling about on this lady’s roof because I had to find a way into her house that wouldn't involve setting off the burglar alarm and then afterwards there were other mobsters involved and I had to shoot my way out and then spent ages weaving through Paris acting like a normal person to throw people off my tail pretending they hadn't just killed her. Also had to ditch the gun and go find a new one. Had to frighten Cochepaille into actually giving me some of his good stuff. Shame Bahorel isn’t in town. Yeah.’ That would go down _so_ well.

“Fell over.”

“On your face?”

“Yes on my face, it’s amazing what feats you can manage when you’re out drinking with the clumsiest person in the world.” After a beat, “My friend, Bossuet. He can’t walk in a straight line even when he’s sober.”

“Are you okay? Do you need any stitches or…”

“I’ll be fine, Apollo, don’t worry about me.” Enjolras is still frowning a little bit at the nickname, but it’s more put-out than actually annoyed, and Grantaire happens to think he looks adorable like a pissed-off cherub, so the nickname is going to stick around obnoxiously for a bit because Grantaire is obviously a sucker for punishment. And Enjolras actually noticed the cut, though Grantaire’s pretty sure that’s just common human decency and probably a good old streak of stubbornness rather than any actual _care_ for Grantaire. “Anyway…I assume you need my assistance with the charming terror that is your daughter?”

“Yes, actually, I’m…needed at work this afternoon.” Enjolras shrugs as if to say ‘what can you do?’ Privately Grantaire wonders if Enjolras know the actual definition of a work-life balance. It’s a Sunday lunchtime, for Christ’s sake. “I should be back this evening, again. I mean, if that’s okay? I just haven’t had time to find anyone else.”

“I mean, I _did_ have a date with Netflix and beer, but you know. Perhaps I could drag myself and little miss destroyer of the patriarchy out to the park for a walk or something.”

“Thank you. I really do appreciate this.”

“Better get going if you’re going to be at work by this afternoon,” Grantaire says. “Unless you’ve got the whole “Apollo is never late, everyone else is simply early,” vibe going.” At Enjolras’ frown: “Princess Diaries. It’s a decent-ish movie. Marianne would rip it into shreds and set them on fire.”

“Yes, I know what the Princess Diaries are. I’m not completely culturally illiterate.”

“I would not have pegged you for the type who’s into cisheteronormative rom-coms.”

“My friends insisted I watch it in university,” Enjolras says, shifting on his feet. “And you’re right, I’m going to be late. Do you mind just heading down there now? She should be finished with lunch.”

Grantaire locks his door and they walk down the stairs together. Enjolras is carrying a rather battered looking briefcase. “Have a good day at work honey,” Grantaire says in a very 1950s fashion, batting his eyelashes. Enjolras rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

Inside the flat, Marianne is rolling around on the floor with a tiny tabby kitten, that says “meep!” and scampers under the table the second Grantaire walks in the door. “Behold, the pizza god has arrived!” he says.

“Grantaire! Dad got me a _kitten_! He said that if he got me one, it had to be named something proper, so I called her Égalité, but that’s a little bit _too_ long so I’m actually calling her Eggy because she’s cute like an egg!”

Grantaire actually finds himself smiling at her, wondering what a thing it is to be seven and overexcited because you have a kitten. She’s an adorable munchkin of a child, and then he tells himself, no, you can’t get attached. You are her babysitter. You are doing this because Enjolras needs a little bit of help because for some reason his husband is not here and it’s hard having an obviously high-powered job that demands working on a Sunday afternoon _and_ raising a kid, all on your own, without any help. But for a guy with a supposedly high-powered job, surely he should be able to afford childcare, and even a nicer apartment. It’s not as if the Goutte D’Or is the nicest bit of Paris by a long way, at least to a white middle class person and all their attendant sensibilities. But anyway. Ruminations on Enjolras’ financial status are not the point. What was the point? That was the point. He is a stone-cold assassin turned mercenary. He used to kill people for money. He is not allowed to start liking this adorable little girl _or_ her father. It’s only sensible to have friends who can defend themselves, friends who are in the business too and therefore _understand_ the whole thing. Also danger. What happens if someone comes for Grantaire unexpectedly? What if...no, seven years.  _Seven years._ They're  _not_  coming. But still, unexpected things happen, as usual when you've been sucked into the whirlpool that is the criminal underworld. He's a murderer, for god's sake, he doesn't deserve to have normal people like him - that's not in the fucking  _job description._ Unfortunately, Grantaire's heart often makes decisions without his head's input, and to be honest, when's he done a single sensible thing in the trainwreck that is his life?

“We’re going to the park.”

“Do I _have_ to?”

“Sunshine is good for you, vampire child. We can go climb some trees or something.”

“I climb trees _all_ the time back in Lourdes.”

“Well then. We’ll have to have a competition. Come on, shoes on. Maybe we’ll get takeout on the way back if you’re _really_ lucky.”

“You’re the best babysitter _ever_ ,” Marianne declares, and Grantaire wants to deny it, wants to snark back that the only thing he's ever been ‘best’ at is murdering people, but you don’t tell anyone that, especially seven year old children.

They go to the Parc de la Villette and Grantaire just ambles around after Marianne, enjoying the warmth of the early September sunshine. They wander past the Argonaut and the big science museum and Marianne apparently likes to skip and jump, and then they spend ages in the Dragon Garden with Grantaire helping Marianne climb stuff because despite her apparent love of climbing trees in Lourdes, she’s really rather uneasy with heights. Then they come home and drag some string around the floor for Eggy and suddenly it’s five o’clock and Marianne is declaring that she’s hungry so Grantaire goes over to the fridge and there is his drawing from the other month, tacked next to a photo of Enjolras in a suit with Marianne and Combeferre on the steps of the National Assembly for some reason. She put his silly drawing up. How sweet.

Enjolras comes home about an hour later. Marianne is sitting at the table with a vegan cheese sandwich in her pyjamas and fluffy blanket because _of course_ Enjolras is vegan and raising his child the same, that is a surprise to _absolutely no-one_. Grantaire really doesn’t understand what is better about this gross plasticky stuff than the real thing, and he is judging _so hard._ The kitten is sitting on the counter watching her curiously. Grantaire’s pretty sure most people don’t allow their cats on their counters, but it’s happy and not biting or scratching like Mme Richelieu’s foul beast of an animal, so he’s just going to let it slide.

“Cats aren’t vegan, buster,” he tells Marianne when she tries to feed it some of the sandwich. “And also bread expands in their stomachs and makes them sick.”

“That’s ducks not cats silly,” she says, because of course she knows better than he does. He’s about to attempt to make an argument for cats and get ripped to shreds when there’s footsteps, a key in the lock, and then Enjolras appears, golden hair damp and looking absolutely exhausted. “Dad!” Marianne shrieks and throws herself bodily off the chair. Enjolras has to drop his briefcase to catch her and it clicks open, spilling papers all over the floor. Grantaire sighs and gets down on his knees to start picking them up because being helpful is apparently his new calling in life, but Enjolras says in a very flustered tone of voice: “no, no, Grantaire, it’s okay, I’ll do that.”

Grantaire puts down the wads of paper – something about Circle for something or other. Marianne has emerged out of Enjolras’ shoulder. “Did you have fun?” Enjolras asks.

Marianne launches into a lengthy explanation, and Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes briefly over the top of her head, just the way he’d done on the stairs several times, as though there’s some kind of inside joke Grantaire is _entirely_ not getting. It’s okay. He’ll just be in the dark like the rest of his soul. It’s where he spends 95% of his time, anyway, though actually being out in the sunshine has totally, weirdly energized him and now all he wants to do is go and throw paint at a canvas. The papers slide slightly on the floor. He shifts.

“I’m gonna head,” he says, when Marianne pauses for breath.

“Of course, sorry,” Enjolras moves out of the way of the door. “Enjoy your beer and Netflix.”

Only Enjolras could make that sound like it was something slightly odd and dirty. Though considering the lack of alcohol and the crazy books around the place, Grantaire is faintly surprised Enjolras has even _heard_ of Netflix. Judgemental asshole. Who is he to act like Netflix is something weird? He’s the _weird_ one. “Actually,” Grantaire says, feeling pretty defensive of both his precious autoplay function and his life choices. Just because he doesn’t read philosophy and eat kale (he saw that in the fridge and his opinion of Enjolras sunk like the Titanic) doesn’t mean that he’s an idiot. “I’m going to paint.”

Enjolras blinks. “Well, enjoy painting then. What do you say, Marianne?”

“Thank you for the park and the sandwich!” Marianne trills.

“You’re welcome!” Grantaire says back, in much the same tone of voice. They both laugh, and then Grantaire goes back upstairs and sits and stares at a canvas and wonders why, when he could be drawing Marianne who actually makes him laugh and is a general wonderful snarky ball of sunshine who totally gets his sense of humour, all his hands want to draw is Enjolras. Sigh. Artists don’t just have to draw aesthetically pleasing people all the time. He makes his brain start picturing Bossuet falling over drunk and decides to draw that instead. Much better for his sanity.

***

Enjolras’ phone rings just as he’s leaving the National Assembly on Friday night. He digs around in his coat pocket for it; it’s Combeferre, and he answers immediately, juggling his piles of folders. Combeferre phoned this morning on Enjolras’ commute in for their catchup. It’s something they decided before he left for this job, to speak to each other daily like they’re still living together even if they have nothing to say (which to be fair, happens rarely). Sometimes, it’s comforting just to hear Combeferre breathing on the other end of the phone, but now, well... he never phones in the evenings on Enjolras’ mobile.

“Hello, is everything okay?”

Combeferre’s voice is slightly strained, and there’s the hum of something in the background. “There’s been a break-in. At the sanctuary.”

“ _Shit._ ”

“Yeah.”

“They got past the wards?”

“Worse, they _disabled_ the wards. I got alerted by those secondary ones we put in before you left, but by the time I got here the intruder had already disappeared. I’m here now.”

Something heavy and sick drops into Enjolras’ stomach. “Is the sanctuary itself okay?”

“Seems to be. I’m just…a bit shaken. Nothing’s happened like this since…”

“The elemental Dad and Fantine faced off against. Yeah, I know. Well I’ll come down, help you get them back up and running.”

“Enjolras, you don’t have…”

“I’m your twain. You’ll burn yourself out if you try that high of a working without me there to support you.”

“I know. I want you here too, I just…who’s going to watch Marianne? I don’t want her alone at the house if there are people breaking in to places that are supposed to be impenetrable.”

Enjolras gets on the Metro, nerves jangling at the unexpected news. The one good thing about not leaving work until seven is that the trains out of the city usually have a few seats free. He takes the last seat available. Most people are travelling in the other direction for a night out on the town. “I’ve found a babysitter. He should be able to stay the night.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re not going to stop me.”

“Yes, we established that when we made our vows. You’ve just been working all week and now to rush down to Lourdes to look after me…this should never have happened in the first place.”

Enjolras stands up to let a pregnant woman have his seat, paces over to the door. When he was small, and Fantine was recovering, he remembers how Dad never gave up on her, sitting down to talk to her for hours on end, bringing her everything her fevered brain demanded. Once, he’d asked about it over dinner. Father had given him a horrified look, had been about to shut down the question, but Dad had put a hand on Father’s and a hand on Enjolras’ and said, “René, when it comes to your twain, you have to read between the lines. Sometimes they’ll know what they need, sometimes they won’t. It’s your job to find out, and to give it to them, as best as you can.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Enjolras says. “And I can sleep on the train. It’s not a bother. Don’t try to do it all now on your own; I will know, and I will sic Éponine on you, don’t think I won’t.”

Combeferre just exhales, doesn’t even make a joke about being scared of his new girlfriend, and all Enjolras wants to do is to collapse the distance between them, to hug Combeferre and be there and help him see that everything is going to be alright. Being a warden is stressful enough without your twain being on the other side of the country.

It’s a quick walk from the Metro to Marianne’s after-school club at the local high school. He signs her out and takes her home. “I just need to go and speak to Grantaire,” he tells her, pulling dinner out of the fridge and sticking it in the microwave. Égalité is meeping, and winding around his legs. “Feed Égalité please, she’s getting on my nerves.”

“Is Grantaire coming over tonight?” Marianne asks.

“Perhaps. I need to go back to Lourdes for the weekend; something’s happened with Pops.”

“Can I come?”

“It’s a grown-up thing,” Enjolras turns to look at her. She’s got her arms folded, is pouting. “I know, Marianne, I’m sorry. Next time. But hopefully Grantaire will be able to look after you, and I’ll make sure Pops Skypes when we’re done, okay?”

“Fine,” Marianne says, sulkily, climbing up onto the counter to get Égalité’s bowl. Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, and then goes out of the door, climbs the stairs to Grantaire’s. He can’t believe he’s been taking advantage of this so much, surely he needs to find an _actual_ babysitter, some college student who needs the extra money, but…there’s something _about_ Grantaire that he can’t put a finger on, something that says: ‘Marianne will be safe with this man’ and that something is, Enjolras tells himself, why he keeps stalling. He knocks and Grantaire opens the door, holding a paintbrush and a can of beer. His feet are bare, and his jumper is full of holes and Enjolras will never _ever_ admit it, but he looks good like this, like he stumbled out of some bourgeois bohemian dreamscape.

“Marianne duty?”

Enjolras scrubs a hand through his hair. “Combeferre called. We’re having an emergency; I’m needed back, and it’s a bit too sensitive to take Marianne. I was wondering…”

“You know, I do have a life that doesn’t consist of running around after your spawn, Apollo,” Grantaire says. Enjolras feels the rebuke like a slap. His eyes sting; the tiredness is like a veil, and he’s got to be at the station in the next hour if he’s to get a train to Toulouse tonight.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he snaps, turning to go. “I’ll find someone else. Have a good evening.”

He gets halfway down the stairs when he becomes aware of Grantaire shouting. “Apollo! Enjolras! Calm down, jeez, I was joking!”

Enjolras turns on his heel. “Really? Because it didn’t _sound_ like a joke.”

“Ooh, someone’s in a tetchy mood tonight.”

There’s no point even deigning that with an answer. “Would you be able to? I’ll find a way to make it up to you, I promise.”

Something flickers across Grantaire’s face, and Enjolras feels himself flush. “Fine,” Grantaire says. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, fervently. “There’s a number for a good vegan pizzeria on the board. I’ll leave some cash out for you.”

“I can afford pizza, Apollo.”

“You’re looking after my daughter, instead of…doing whatever it is you do on a Friday night. Please, let me pay for the pizza.”

“Who am I to turn up free pizza?” Grantaire hovers, like he’s about to say something else, then decides against it. Enjolras barely registers the energetic rebound, for all that it flicks gently against his skin. “I’ll just go lock up, and I’ll be right down.”

Marianne is sitting at the table with Égalité next to her, arms folded. Enjolras shoves half of tomato tart into her bowl and puts the rest in a Tupperware for himself. “Grantaire will be down in a moment,” he says, going into his bedroom to quickly shove some underwear into a bag. The door opens, and he hears Grantaire’s voice.

“Hey trouble! What do you say to a Star Wars marathon?”

“Grantaire!”

Enjolras takes a moment to press his fingers into his eyes, breathes in. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. He re-emerges with the bag, calculating how long it will take to get to the Gare Montparnasse from here, presses a kiss to the top of Marianne’s head. She twists around to wrap her little arms around his shoulders. “Love you,” he says. “Be good for Grantaire.”

“Love you too,” she says, “and _obviously_ , we’re watching Star Wars.”

She is getting more and more like Combeferre each day, Enjolras thinks. Grantaire is watching from beside the counter, absently petting a purring Égalité. “Thank you,” he says again. Grantaire makes a weird flappy motion with his hand. The sleeve of his jumper slides down his forearm, and Enjolras can see the hard lines of scars, tattoos, feels the exchange of emotional energy - gratitude switching tones into don’t-you-worry. He drags his eyes away. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Safe travels,” Grantaire says. Marianne makes a noise through a mouthful of tart. Enjolras closes the door behind him and runs for the Metro station.

***

He reviews some policy document one of his aides has sent him on the train, trying not to get annoyed by the woman talking loudly on her phone from Paris all the way to Toulouse next to him. Every time she hangs up one phone call she starts another, and he wonders who on earth is around to have lengthy conversations about circus elephants at nearly midnight, tries not to get distracted by the halo of annoyed energy emanating around her. Why couldn’t he have sat next to someone with a _quiet_ energetic aura for once? It’s not like he can even _do_ anything about it, he hasn't done a mind-shield in far too long to even think about trying it now. He considers calling a taxi as they pull into the station – all two hours of it, it’s more expense than he can afford right now – but just then he gets a text from Éponine telling him that she’s parked illegally, she knows his train is in, and could he please hurry the hell up. He’s never been more grateful to climb into her battered Jeep, which is indeed parked where it shouldn’t be and blaring some weird post-punk music that he’s never been able to understand why she likes.

“You look like shit,” she says as he shuts the door, reaches for the fraying seatbelt. “Haven’t you ever heard of sleeping?”

“Too much to do,” he yawns. “Needed to get some changes into the policy document before it goes to committee on Monday, won’t have time this weekend.”

“Ridiculous human being.” She rolls her eyes and pulls out of the station car park. “Sleep. You’re going to need it. Yves wants to start rebuilding the wards at six tomorrow, and we’re not going to get in much before three.”

“Six. Sensible time. Ambient energy will be nice and low.”

“Yes, I know. He told me. Thank _god_ I’m not a mage, I couldn’t deal with being up that early.”

“You get used to it.”

“That is still not the sound of you sleeping. One of Gav’s jumpers is in the back if you want to use it as a pillow.”

“Thanks.”

Éponine turns the music down a little bit as a concession, but it really doesn’t matter; they’re barely out of the city centre before Enjolras is fast asleep, spiralling down into the dark. He slides awake again at the feel of chilly night air, slipping in, the crunch of feet on gravel. “Come on, sleeping beauty,” Éponine is saying. “One foot in front of the other. An actual bed awaits you.”

“How are you still snarky at three in the morning?” Enjolras mumbles, wiping his arm across his face. They are indeed back at the warden’s house, the vine-choked front a ghostly shadow in the dark.

“Red Bull is the love of my life and the reason for my existence.”

“Combeferre will be pleased to know that.”

“Yves knows he comes in second. That’s why we started dating, duh. Come on, I know you’re still asleep but you’re too heavy for me to lift you.”

Enjolras peels his eyes open just enough to get into the house and up the stairs, into the bedroom next to Combeferre’s, out of his suit and into bed. It isn’t long enough before he becomes aware of a weight on the edge of it. He makes himself wake up, sits up a little in bed to see Combeferre leaning against the foot board, fully dressed in his warden’s robe with a book open on his lap and his bare feet stretched out over the cover.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, with such fondness Enjolras forgets that he’s supposed to be tired and grouchy from travelling half the night.

“Morning.” Enjolras stretches, feels the creak of his muscles. He and Combeferre used to travel so much more than this when they were newly vowed to each other, going all over the world on exchanges and visits, have slept far less and been no worse off for it, but he supposes your body lets you get away with so much more when you’re twenty-three instead of pushing thirty-two.

“I brought breakfast up for us to share. Thought you’d want a little longer in bed.” Combeferre puts the book to one side; it’s some treatise of M. Myriel’s on warding, well thumbed and battered, picks up a tray with a toast rack and vegan spread and jam and a cafetiere. He’s quiet whilst Enjolras inhales two mugs of coffee and takes a piece of toast. “How was the journey?”

Enjolras shrugs. “The usual. Thank you for sending Éponine to get me.”

“It was her idea, actually. I think she’s missed you.”

“I slept most of the journey, so I wasn’t much company.”

Combeferre shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You know how she gets about people she cares for.”

Enjolras just smiles, turns the thought over in his head. He’s pleased, that Éponine has integrated so well into their lives, into what, for most people, would not look out of place in a YA fantasy novel, with nothing but a pinch of salt and a few sarcastic comments. Enjolras had asked her about it, once, soon after she’d decided to move in with them in May, and she’d said, “Sure, you may be mages, but you’re still a pair of ridiculous thirty-year-old guys at the end of the day. Could totally pass for a pair of washed-out hipsters with all the energy talk.” Courfeyrac, staying for the week, had laughed himself silly.

“How was Marianne, about all of this?”

“Annoyed, that she couldn’t come and see you. I said that we’d Skype, but I think Grantaire and the promise of movies and pizza have mellowed her out a bit.”

“You’ve never mentioned this Grantaire chap before,” Combeferre says. Enjolras finishes his toast, gets out of bed to find the robes that came along with the house. Blue for the current warden, red for their twain, at least, for official functions, feeling the…no, it’s never a reprimand, with Combeferre _._ Curiosity, more than anything. Enjolras shrugs.

“I…yeah.”

“Can I know about the man you’ve entrusted our daughter to or is it a state secret?”

Enjolras snorts, half into the robes. Combeferre comes over to help him do up the fiddly clasp at the back, his fingers brushing against the back of Enjolras’ neck. “Hardly. He’s an artist. He lives upstairs. He’s annoying, talks a lot about drinking beer, and is more sarcastic than Éponine but he listens to Marianne when she talks, drew her Cinderella as a cyborg, and seems to enjoy her company.” Enjolras sighs. “I trust him, more than I would some clueless college student.”

Combeferre’s hands are still lingering around Enjolras’ shoulders. “And I trust your judgement. You know that. I’m just curious. You usually mention things like this.”

Enjolras feels a flush burning up his neck, shrugs. “I don’t know why it never came up.” The silence is telling, whispering, there’s a slow burn of something Enjolras hasn’t said turning the air golden like burnt sugar, but he’s damned if he knows what it is. He turns to face Combeferre, who’s giving him a look like _I felt that too but I_ _’m not going to push you unless you want to tell me_. “Tell me about the intruders.”

“I was up there scanning for hours last night, but there isn’t much of a trace. Whoever they were, they’ve covered their tracks pretty well.” His expression twists, and Enjolras reaches out to take his hand, to squeeze it.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“Logically, yes. Emotionally, less so. I filed the report with the Circle, but they haven’t got back to me.”

“It _is_ six in the morning,” Enjolras points out. “And they can’t remove you for something like this. You’re responding to it exactly right, and it’s not like you can control other mages. They know that.”

“And you know they’re just _looking_ for an excuse to boot me out.”

“They can’t, can they? Once you’re vowed in as warden, it’s a two-year post. They’d have to call the Seer, bring charges…”

“Yes, but…”

“And if they do, well, they’ll be up against Dad and Cosette, so good luck to them.”

Combeferre sighs. “I know. It’s just…any failure is a black mark in their book. They’re already taking too long on the funding application Feuilly and I put in, and, well. I don’t think we’re going to get it.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around Combeferre’s shoulders, fierce, knowing his anger at the Circle, at how _unjust_ they are must be lighting up the room like a flare. “We can emigrate,” he says. “Go live with your parents in Dakar.”

“You’re in the National Assembly for at least another four years,” Combeferre reminds him. “And really? You living anywhere else than France? You’re the most French person I’ve ever met, veganism notwithstanding.”

“If we keep getting mistreated by our own government, then our choices are rebellion or emigration.”

“Rebellion,” Combeferre laughs. “You are so predictable. I thought you’d left that all behind you in our university days.”

“You know some of the things my colleagues say, I rant often enough. Sometimes the thought of ripping the whole neoliberal capitalist institution down is the only thing that keeps me going.”

Combeferre disentangles himself, goes to pick up the book, but he’s more relaxed, which Enjolras counts as a victory. “Come on, Desmoulins, let’s head to the sanctuary. You can practise your revolutionary rhetoric on me whilst we ward.”

***

All in all, Grantaire thinks, it’s been a good weekend. They’ve eaten an obscene amount of pizza, Marianne taught him how to make vegan crackle cookies, played with Eggy, done a whole lot of drawing, and watched all _eight_ Star Wars movies, _plus_ Rogue One. Marianne, predictably, had choice things to say about movies one to six. Seven and eight she liked better, mostly because she wants to be Rey. Grantaire thinks she’d make a great Jedi warrior, personally; she’s got the gimlet stare and the social justice streak for it, though she might have to work on her balance. Anyway, he’s not complaining. Plenty of gorgeous people for him to ogle.

“Yeah, goodnight,” he says into the dark soup of Marianne’s bedroom. “Sleep well, petite grenouille.”

“...why did you call me a frog?”

“Because frogs are awesome. Go to sleep.”

“I want Dad. Why isn’t he home yet?”

“The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Dad will be home.”

Grumpy silence. “I guess.”

“Count llamas. It’s way more interesting than counting sheep, you might get spat on.”

Marianne giggles. “Gross!”

“Well the fewer llamas you count, the less likely you are to get spat on.”

“Fine.” There’s a rustle of her turning over in bed. Grantaire shuts the door, heads back out to the little sitting room. He’s folded the blanket and pillow neatly because not his house and settles down to wait with a mug of tea, flipping on the ten o’clock news to give himself something to do. Eggy pads delicately onto his lap, giving the dangling leather clasp of one of his bracelets an experimental tap and settling down in a ball of purring fluff when he glares at her. He half-watches the scrolling banner, and half dozes, thinking about the bottle of vodka that’s been waiting for him all weekend, the bottle of vodka he's only just remembered he has, who knew Marianne was as good a distraction as booze? The newsreader goes through economic reform, bad weather system coming in, snap to a shot of the National Assembly and whoa hold on that is a _very_ familiar head of blonde hair standing behind the speaker’s podium and…

There’s the sound of a key in the lock, and then Enjolras is standing in the sitting room door looking grey with exhaustion, dark circles carved under his eyes like someone took a permanent marker to them. Rather unwillingly, Grantaire feels a slight pang of sympathy. Enjolras chose to put himself through going all the way to the south of France and back in one weekend. He brought the curse of tiredness upon his head entirely on his own, that means he has to deal with the consequences. “Hello,” he says, “is Marianne asleep?”

“It’s eleven pm, what kind of babysitter do you take me for?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes again. If he spends much more time around Grantaire, they’re going to get stuck that way. The invisible Musichetta in Grantaire’s head pokes him. _‘Where are your manners, idiot?’_ it says. “How was Lourdes?”

“Long,” Enjolras takes off his suit jacket, perches on the edge of the armchair squashed in the corner next to the lamp. “Very long. It was lovely to see Combeferre though.”

Of course it was, Grantaire thinks. It would be idiotic to _not_ enjoy seeing one’s spouse, even if it was an emergency.

“Marianne enjoyed the Skype call.” What a dumb thing to say, of course she enjoyed a Skype call with her parents, she’s a seven year old kid. Grantaire had given them a brief wave in the background and shuffled off into the kitchen to give her some privacy. Children deserve it just as much as adults do.

“Yes, it was nice. Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah. Movies, pizza. Usual slumber party stuff. She was very excited. Maybe too excited. Does she go on…you know, slumber parties and stuff, usually?”

Enjolras runs a hand over his face. “No. She, um, doesn’t have many friends at school.”

“Huh. Not surprised. Your average seven-year-old doesn’t go around saying things like “Disney princesses uphold problematic, old-fashioned standards of femininity which are unattainable for normal people.”” Grantaire holds up a placating hand at the frown coalescing on Enjolras’ face. “Not a comment on your parenting style, Apollo. I’m sure she’ll go on to do great things, when she meets the right people, but your average elementary school is not where she’s going to find them.”

“I met Combeferre at elementary school,” Enjolras murmurs, and Grantaire has no idea what to do with that admission of a fucking great love story, so takes a big gulp of lukewarm tea and trying not to splutter. They’re quiet for a bit. The rain dribbles down the window, and Grantaire looks out towards the lights half-visible on the Periphique, smears of white and red, people’s lives unspooling just out of reach. Like Enjolras. Sitting so close, totally out of reach.

“So National Assembly, huh? You kept that quiet. Thought deputies lived in fancier places than this, guards and secretaries and all that stuff.”

“A real representative of the people lives amongst the people, not set above them,” Enjolras says, his face unreadable, staring at his hands.

“Ah, a member of the communist party! No tax breaks and private transport for this honourable gentleman!”

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras’ tone of voice says that he can’t tell whether Grantaire is mocking him or not. Grantaire doesn’t really know, either.

“You do realise that communism is a generally flawed method of government?”

“Why are you choosing to be antagonistic?”

“Provocative. I’m actually interested in your answer.”

Enjolras launches into an extremely charismatic and rigorously structured speech of what sounds like his deepest political beliefs. Grantaire spends most of it enjoying the way the soft orange lamplight curls around his shoulders and hair, the look on his face, the smile, the _passion,_ committing it all to memory for his inevitable midnight painting session. If he squints, he could swear that Enjolras is actually _glowing,_ fragments sparking off him with every sweep of his blazing rhetoric. This is better than booze and TV, this is _inspiration._ “So yes,” Enjolras concludes, “communism as an ideology is far too idealistic to be implemented in a pure form, but the principles can and have been in some historical circumstances used as a guiding framework for a fairer and more egalitarian society.”

“If you don’t get cockblocked by the capitalists and neoliberals. Not every politician is as geared towards fairness as you are.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that fact. My colleagues often leave a lot to be desired.”

“Murder them?” Grantaire jokes, and Enjolras snorts.

“That’s not very just and high minded.”

“I’m sure there are certain people who’d gladly take up that kind of commission.”

“I’m sure there are. It’s not my remit, but I hope the DGSI are making sure they’re hunted down and thrown in jail - murder never solves any kind of problem.”

The bolt hits home, and Grantaire swallows. He doesn’t know. Seriously. He’s probably never met an assassin or mercenary before, thinks we all live in slimy little boltholes surrounded by piles of cash, constantly craving the blood like some weird gun-toting vampire. He’s never met a Joly or a Bossuet, seen that there are humans behind the job too, just like any other, humans who’ve made idiotic choices or met certain people or followed their moral compass even when society didn’t agree…and anyway, there _are_ some people who honestly and truly need to die. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta have taken on a couple of those kinds of cases, in the past, before they made the switch to private security. Grantaire’s more mercenary, to be honest, he came to terms with the fact he doesn’t give many fucks about the rest of humanity a long while back, but there are _good people_ in the underworld, people you can trust, as much as people who kill other people can be good and trustworthy by society’s unforgiving moral standards. It stings, that Enjolras doesn’t get that. But then again, Grantaire reminds himself fiercely, _why would he_?

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks after a moment.

“Just thinking,” Grantaire says. “You are an actual member of the communist party, then?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So, hit me. How are you going to overcome capitalism?”

“Urgh, I wish Laurent hadn’t put it like that,” Enjolras sighs. “Overcome makes it sound like some sort of ravening monster. It’s a system, not a fairytale, we need to dismantle it, not overcome it.”

“Damn, I was hoping to see you smite the stock exchanges,” Grantaire shifts, and Eggy squeaks, irritated, then curls back up. “Light em up up up – come on! You _have_ to have heard that song! My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark. Fall Out Boy. It’s a classic. _Apollo,_ no!”

Enjolras is giving him a very bemused look, which should not be so adorable. Grantaire tells himself it’s because Enjolras looks like he’s about to collapse from sleep deprivation. Which is of course the reason he keeps talking about politics, because logical and sensible life decisions are being made right now. “No-one should have enough power to smite anywhere or anyone. If you have that much power, you cease to become human. You start seeing humans as…numbers, or shadows, not real people with lives as complicated and complex as your own.”

“Surely that’s just what politicians do, on a day to day basis,” Grantaire points out, lazy.

“No, we…”

“You can’t tell me you know _every single one_ of your constituents, like, personally – their life story, their aunt, what they ate for dinner last week? You can’t! It’s a necessary function of being a person with responsibility that you dehumanise, at least for workability.” Or dehumanise a lot, Grantaire thinks. Especially in his kind of work. It preserves the sanity, or what little of it he's got left.

“Yes, of course I work in numbers when necessary, but that doesn’t mean one should _solely_ think in those terms. If you do that then you do injustice to the people who often need your help the most. If you forget that you’re counting people, then you lose track of what you’re doing and why you’re doing it – like, if you just thought in numbers, you’d look at ‘illegal’ immigration and refugees as a problem for the economy and whatever other trash the tabloids spout: lo and behold, Fortress Europe! Being human is about recognising other people’s humanity. If you think about the same problem like that, you’d see that actually these people are fleeing for their lives because they have _literally no other options_ and actually, a lot of the blame lies on the shoulders of the West for meddling in places and situations they had no right to meddle in.”

“I still think you can’t fully empathise with another person unless you’ve had the same experiences. People _won_ _’t_ think of refugees as fellow human beings because they don’t understand, they’ve never had that experience. Unless you want to chuck half the population of France out of their homes and send them trekking to, I don’t know, China, then they’ll _never_ understand.”

“But I think ordinary people _do._ I read this book, wait,” Enjolras gets up, goes to his bookshelf, and finds an average-sized blue paperback, hands it to Grantaire. _The Lightless Sky,_ he reads. “And the author, who, by the way, was a child refugee…”

“Yes, Apollo, surprisingly I _can_ read.”

Enjolras ploughs by on a wave of exhausted righteousness, totally ignoring Grantaire: “Writes that often it’s the normal people, like the woman who gave he and his companions a lift back to Calais from Germany when one of their attempts to get on a lorry to the UK was unsuccessful or the activists who got in between them and the police in the Calais Jungle, or the volunteers at soup kitchens – it was _those_ people who empathised and did something to help them. Who saw them as human. It’s the politicians and the system, locked away from people’s _actual lived experience_ that don’t understand, that perpetuate the violence.”

“So you want to drop all the deputies in the National Assembly into the Calais Jungle?”

“If it would make them _care_ more, then absolutely,” Enjolras says, without a second’s hesitation.

“Cold.”

“Surely you can’t disagree?”

“Well, I agree that the system is fucked up, but I don’t see how that would work. People are, fundamentally, self-interested. You must have read Hobbes; we’re doomed to nasty, brutish, and short lives, and if you think of other people in the way you want your colleagues to, then your life is just going to get shorter. Survival depends looking after _yourself_ first, and granted I’m not talking taking it to extremes like, I don’t know, Lord of the Flies, but you know. It’s what the world’s built on. You can't just solve every problem by holding hands and singing hymns, sometimes there's got to be a bit of gunpowder to drive things home. Some people will  _only ever_ listen to violence, it's the only language they speak. Also side note…you are _also_ a politician…so…”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Perhaps you should drop out and stage a revolution instead, it might be more successful than trying to change the world from inside the Assembly.”

“I’ve considered it,” Enjolras sways, and yawns. Grantaire gives him a look.

“Christ on a bike, man, go to bed. You’ve got to be awake in like, seven hours to go back to fighting your losing battles.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Enjolras yawns again, like a cat. “Doesn’t help anything.”

And the judgmental asshole is back, in new tired flavour, less fire, better for the digestive system. Grantaire can be pessimistic if he wants. If anything, Enjolras is _far too optimistic_ about humanity’s general propensity for goodness. It’s not healthy to carry around that much hope, like too much weight, it’ll cause a heart attack at some point or another. One day, Enjolras is going to end up just like the other bastards up there in their ivory towers. It’s inevitable, Grantaire thinks, it’s the way that particular story always ends. He moves Eggy who stretches and makes another little squeak, flexes her claws like Grantaire’s hands are a particularly juicy dream-mouse.

“Thanks for this weekend,” Enjolras says, as Grantaire gets up. “Also, take the book, if you want. I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.”

“A sob story isn’t going to change my opinions, Apollo. I’m not an activist-type.”

Enjolras fixes him with a look. Grantaire takes the book. “Fine, fine. Goodnight. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Sleep well, when you get there.” Enjolras _nearly_ manages a smile, and Grantaire very suddenly forgets that he usually doesn’t have to think about breathing.

“You too,” he manages, and beats a hasty retreat. It’s not quick enough. He spends most of the early hours of the morning sitting front of his sketchpad in the light, surrounded by crayons, figuring out how to commit that smile to paper. God knows he probably isn’t going to see it again. Unsurprisingly, he forgets he had a whole bottle of vodka to drink.

***

The next time Enjolras shows up at his door, about two weeks later, Grantaire doesn’t even bother with the joke. Enjolras looks wild-eyed and panicked, and Grantaire just says, “Yeah sure, go, you don’t want to miss your train.”

The look of pure gratitude Enjolras gives him is worth signing away another weekend to look after Marianne. In any case, he promised her a Marvel marathon and Chinese takeout if Dad ever got called away again, and since Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly are somewhere undisclosed in South America currently, it’s not like he had another plans than his usual. He’s checked the forums a bit recently, but there’s nothing from anyone he really trusts, and anyway, after the fucking slips he made recently, he sure deserves a break. The weekend goes smoothly. Eggy is now allowed outside and comes trotting back in with her first mouse, which Marianne is horrified by and Grantaire has to sit her down and explain to her what a food-chain is, and also, that since the mouse was whole, apparently Eggy thinks that Marianne is a big, useless kitten who can’t feed herself. It’s some random fact Joly coughed up whilst drunk. Marianne is distracted enough by this for Grantaire to dump the mouse corpse out of the window. Then she hugs Eggy despite the wriggling and mewing and says: “I love you, thank you for looking after me,” and Grantaire’s heart squeezes, sharply, like someone put little hands right into his chest. He spends the whole of Thor: Ragnarök googling properties to rent on his phone. He’s got to get out, before he gets in too deep, he’s _got_ to leave. What the hell was he thinking, agreeing to all of this? This is roots, this is connections, this is dangerous. He’s always operated alone, and that’s the way it should be, he _cannot_ drag anyone else into this with him, he made his own idiotic choices years ago and now he just has to buckle up and deal with the consequences. Something explodes on the screen and Marianne laughs and turns to him and says, “I want to be Valkyrie when I grow up,”

and that’s when Grantaire takes a deep breath, closes the tabs on his phone and thinks, it’s fine. He cares about her, so what? It’s fine. Just a few more months. It can’t hurt. Likelihood is he’ll disappear somewhere else in Europe in the new year, start afresh. Might as well actually _enjoy_ his last few months in Paris, enjoy the dream of being normal, and it’s quite nice to have someone who seems to his enjoy his company as well. Anyway.

It’s a good weekend. It is. He doesn’t drink. He feels like a human being. He only has one nightmare, and it's not even a bad one. Joly texts him a video of Bossuet with a bright orange starfish that matches his swimming trunks with the caption that he trod on an anemone two seconds afterwards in traditional Bossuet style. There’s another photo of Musichetta looking extremely glamorous in a green bikini with some form of cocktail. He and Marianne are eating leftover Chinese when Enjolras returns. Marianne does the shriek and throw herself at him routine, which will never not be cute; Grantaire never remembers being _this_ delighted to see one of his parents. He shoves another mouthful of food into his mouth. He should probably go and let them have their evening together, but he’s damned if he’s going to go without food. There’s exactly nothing in his fridge upstairs.

“Where’s Pops? You said you were bringing him home with you.”

Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment and Grantaire feels like he should leave but he’s kind of stuck because they’re blocking the doorway and his mouth is full of food, so he stays, mostly awkwardly. “He says he’ll call tomorrow,” Enjolras apparently finally settles on. Marianne is regarding him with huge wounded eyes.

“But you said he was coming back!”

“Marianne…”

“No, put me down, put me _down_!”

Enjolras lowers her to the floor and she grabs Eggy unceremoniously from the counter and disappears into her bedroom, blanket trailing behind her. The door slams shut, and Enjolras sighs. Grantaire fists his hands uselessly at his sides, wondering what he should say, eyeing the door but not _really_ wanting to leave. He cares, he realises all of a sudden. He wants to make sure Enjolras is _alright._ He feels slightly winded _._ God he could do with a drink right now. “Are you okay?” he eventually says, a bit too little, too late. Enjolras sits on the free bar stool, but it’s more like a slump.

“I did promise her,” he says, voice slightly muffled, strained. “And something came up _right_ at the last minute, just as we were about to get to the station. It’s just…sorry. I’m fine. It’s been a long day.”

“I could go and talk to her, if you want?”

It’s a testament to how exhausted Enjolras is that he considers for only a moment, then nods. “That’s kind. Thank you.”

Grantaire doesn’t really know what to say that because he’s not kind, kindness is not what he does _at all,_ kindness gets people _killed,_ but the panic he usually associates with those kinds of words is not as strong as usual. He feels slightly full. If he were Eggy, he’d be purring right now. He knocks on Marianne’s bedroom door.

“Go away, Dad!”

“It’s not Dad, it’s Grantaire. Can I come in and talk to you?”

A considering pause. “Maybe.”

“You know I’ll only come in if it’s a firm yes. You can tell me to bugger off, if you want.”

Another pause, longer. Grantaire leans his head against the solid wood of the door and waits.

“Okay,” Marianne says, and he lets himself in. Her voice is all wobbly and she’s curled in the corner of her bed, so cuddled in her blanket it looks like it’s actually devouring her like a huge sparkly fluffy monster. Grantaire perches on the edge of the bed, clasps his hands.

“So…”

Marianne sniffles. He tries to find words for a moment. Why do they always hide when he needs them the most? This is inconvenient, he is a man of action and drinking and painting, words are explicitly _not his thing._ He failed his literature exam rather shockingly at school. When God handed out talents at birth, Grantaire missed out on the literacy skills by a mile. Sorry, God said when they got to the end of the line. None left for you! Have some paintbrushes and a bent moral compass, that’ll make up for it!

“You know your Dad loves you, right?” he starts with. “And I’ve not met your Pops, but I bet he does too.”

“I know. They say it all the time. Well. Pops more than Dad.”

“Yes, your Dad is a bit emotionally stunted isn’t he?” Grantaire says. “Stunted means…”

“I know. Cut off.” Marianne sniffles again, but it’s a little less doleful. “Pops says he’s _never_ been good at showing feelings towards people.”

“Well you know Dad would never upset you deliberately. And it sounds like your Pops really _did_ have an emergency.”

“There are always emergencies in Lourdes. I miss him, Grantaire. I want Pops back.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. It’s hard being away from someone you love. But you’ve just got to keep soldiering on. Do exciting things so you can tell him about them on the phone.”

“There isn’t anything exciting. I’ve been reading since I was three, and none of the kids in my class know _how_ that well yet. Dad’s always at work, and after school club is boring because we couldn’t afford the child minder anymore and…”

Grantaire looks around the room. It’s quite plain, still, a neat bookshelf and toy basket and wardrobe, gingham curtains, and thinks about the fact that his job literally necessitates doing pretty much nothing for very long stretches of time, and to be honest, with the wad of cash he’s gotten recently he should have time for a bit of a holiday. “Well, I don’t know what you’re angling for, petite grenouille, but perhaps I could pick you up from school, if Dad agrees, and we could, like, I don’t know,” he casts around in his head for ideas, “decorate your walls?”

Marianne’s eyes light up like glowsticks. “Really? Could we paint Rey and BB8 on them? And Wonder Woman? And Princess Shuri and Nakia?”

“Absolutely. I think Rey, Diana, Nakia and Shuri would be honoured to be up there. Wouldn’t it be exciting to tell Pops about, huh?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, wriggly. I think you’ve got yourself a deal.”

The door creaks open a little, and Grantaire looks up into Enjolras’ eyes. Marianne goes quiet for a second, and then pads over to him, trailing her blanket still and wraps her arms around his waist. “Sorry for being mad,” she mumbles. “Will you read me a story?”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, resting a hand on her head. Grantaire decides this is probably a good time to leave them to it, and gets up, is about to squeeze past, but Enjolras stops him with a touch to his shoulder. Grantaire feels the weight of it like gravity juddering through his bones, breathless all of a stupid sudden. “Will you wait? I want to talk to you.”

“Um, okay?”

“There’s tea in the pot if you want some.”

“Sure.”

Grantaire pours himself some of the weird green tea thing Enjolras appears to have made, breathes in the smell of it. It’s minty and sweet, like a mojito, which, incidentally, is Musichetta’s favourite drink. He puts the TV on, switches to some jarring reality TV show that he knows Enjolras will disapprove of and waits. Thoughts creep into his head on ghostly feet, like Eggy, who noses the living room door open and pads over to him, jumps into his lap. He cares about them, about Marianne mostly and Enjolras a bit, and even Eggy the mouse-killer, this weird little jigsaw that’s obviously and painfully missing a piece, that’s somehow found a sporadic space for him. He’s a fixture in their lives. If he disappeared, Marianne would be upset. So, his brain reasons, don’t disappear, idiot. Stick around. It’s been seven years, he has all his precautions in place because after last time, well, that’s a path he doesn’t want to go down anymore. ‘It isn’t _actually_ good for you to be all alone all the time’ a voice in his head says and he wonders when his head started sounding like Joly, fussing like a mother hen.

The door shifts open again, and Grantaire blinks. Enjolras comes in and clicks the TV off. His own mug of mint tea (which by the way is unfairly delicious for not being alcoholic) is steaming and he’s changed out of his shirt and into a loose, too-big t-shirt that says, “LiberTea” on it with a smiling, slightly creepy bug-eyed mug. Grantaire bets it’s Combeferre’s, because there is no way a person like Enjolras would own a shirt like that. “Thank you, for that,” he says after a moment, settling on the arm of the armchair. “I just…yeah. Marianne told me what you’d suggested, that’s very kind but…”

“It is literally no problem, don’t even start. She’s a great kid. And you probably worked this out by now but I’m an artist, so…”

“I can pay you, if you want.”

“ _Not_ a struggling artist. I just sold a big piece, so I can afford to kick back for a while.” The lie a little bit salty on his tongue. Grantaire wonders why that’s always the case, why his body likes to remind him, even after all the lies his told in his very medium-aged life.

“Okay. If you’re sure. Thank you.”

“Totally sure. As I keep saying, your child is hilarious.” And keeps me out of the deep dark pits of lying in bed drinking all day is what Grantaire _doesn_ _’t_ say. He’s mostly made his peace with alcoholism, because at least it's not drugs or suicide attempts, it's a quiet way of trying to bleach his brain of the things he's seen, the things he talked himself into doing, the things that are horrific and probably should have landed him in prison years ago, the things he has never been able to find a way out of. But since they moved in, well... he’s already drinking less. Musichetta is sending less check-up messages because he texts her random things Marianne says and does, just to prove that he’s not lying in bed drunk for days on end. Sometimes he even sends them videos of him working out, or that painting of Bossuet falling flat on his face that Musichetta saw the sketch for and immediately commissioned. Life is picking up, slowly. He hasn’t bothered scrolling through the forums much, only logs on when he's feeling particularly self-loathing. 

“I just…you have a life. Like you said.”

Grantaire gives him a _look_. If he had glasses, he would shove them up his nose and look disapproving. Alas, he does not. He’s been blessed with pretty good vision. “It was mostly a joke. I go out with my friends when they’re in town and paint things. Literally nothing will change if I start looking after Marianne.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Apollo. Seriously. I’m offering. Stop trying to dissuade me, you’ll make me think you don’t like me.”

Enjolras turns pink. Grantaire stares at him for a moment, slightly stunned, then files that away for further consideration later when he’s back upstairs. Interesting. “Fine. Well, you’ve got the spare key and my number. Could you start tomorrow? I’ll text you the address of the school and fill in all the paperwork tomorrow morning.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Grantaire lifts Eggy claws and all off his jeans. “Please take your furry creature and go to bed because you have just come back from Lourdes and I am entirely sure you didn’t sleep a wink on that train.”

“Really?”

“Can’t I care about your wellbeing as well as the sprog’s?”

Enjolras gives him an extremely unimpressed look over the lip of his mug, and Grantaire bursts out laughing.

***

Henceforth, his days when he’s not working turn over like this. (note: since he’s self-employed, he chooses not to work every day. It’s glorious). He wakes up and sometimes feeds himself and cleans his armoury and does his fitness workout and paints. Mostly things of Enjolras, though he can never quite get it right. Sometimes he looks at the little gallery of the same face staring back and tells himself he needs to hide some of this unless Enjolras walks in and thinks Grantaire is totally obsessed with him. Which Grantaire _is,_ if he’s being honest, because a) have you seen the man and b) one doesn’t usually choose one’s muses, but there’s no reason for Enjolras to know that. Then he showers and goes to fetch Marianne from elementary school, and when there’s a new receptionist on, shows his ID and says patiently, “Yes, Mme Simplice, I’m the babysitter, yes check my name, yes, okay, we’re good, thank you.”

Marianne comes out of class on her own, usually carrying a book or something and trailing behind a load of other seven-year olds who are talking nonsense about whatever normal seven-year olds talk about, and then they walk home, and she tells him what she’s learnt, and he tells her interesting things he’s made up and she disembowels them, and they walk up the stairs to the apartment. He fetches her juice and a biscuit because he’s the best babysitter ever and then lays out the paint clothes and paints, puts on some music (which he’s had to cull, he will _not_ be the one responsible for Marianne learning about some things she’d probably better not know about until she’s a bit older) and then they sit and paint. Marianne’s a good helper. She’s perfectly happy to attack the background, to order him around: “No, I want Rey holding her lightsabre like _that_!” and “You should make Finn and Poe hold hands because men should hold hands more!” which Grantaire is perfectly happy to oblige. And then he often feeds her dinner because the life of a people’s representative means that Enjolras rarely gets home before seven or eight, but sometimes he manages and insists on Grantaire staying for food, which is always disgustingly full of vegetables and things like tofu. But then they all sit around the kitchen table and laugh and chat, and Grantaire starts to think about how much he likes it when Enjolras is lounging about with his shirt collar unbuttoned, laughing at something Marianne has done, growing ever more relaxed by the day, about how this is turning into way more than just attraction, about how this is what life could have been like, what life might turn into. It's possible. It's  _really,_ really possible. Dear  _deities,_  that’s a terrifying thought.

“You smile a lot more,” Bossuet mentions once, at their gathering post-undisclosed location in South America. This time they’ve relocated to an establishment _much_ more to Grantaire’s tastes. You can practically see the mould on the ceiling. Grantaire shrugs.

“Spring’s on the way,” he says. Bossuet and Joly exchange a _very, annoyingly_ significant look. Bossuet snickers. Grantaire’s glare flies over their heads, totally unnoticed.

“Poetic,” Joly says, “considering the fact it’s not even Christmas yet, idiot.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire says.

***

Grantaire is waiting for Marianne to get out from school when his phone buzzes. He disconnected the forum alerts a while back, and knows for a fact that Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet are somewhere in the Mediterranean at this precise moment, so it can’t be them. He pulls out his phone to see a message alert from Enjolras, and thinks, _shit,_ quickly pulling it up. Might be another emergency in Lourdes, a request that Grantaire spends the night again…

                        _[How do such educated people make such stupid decisions?]_

Grantaire laughs, feels a slight thrill. Enjolras is texting him about normal stuff! Not about just Marianne!

            _[Committee meeting bad as u thought?]_

_[Worse. They know nothing about how their proposed reforms affect anyone outside the white middle class.]_

_[u know, murder still available. pres button for instant zombification]_

_[Still wouldn't make them grapple with their own privilege. Urgh.]_

_[*zombie emoji*: brains dead flesh ooooh white privilege, my fave!]_

_[I will bring about the ZOMBIE REVOLUTION]_

_[that zombie was u, btw]_

_[I'm flattered you’d think I’d bring about a zombie revolution.]_

_[of course u would havent u met urself?!?!?]_

_[Hilarious.]_

_[can we just appreciate u use actl punctuation etc in ur mssges lol]_

_[like who does that]_

_[People who have to make good impressions via text.]_

_[ooooh burn *fire emoji* *fire emoji* *fire emoji*]_

_[You_ _’re ridiculous.]_

_[*fire emoji*]_

_[u <3 it]_

_[*fire emoji*]_

Grantaire sends the last one, looks at it and thinks: is this flirting? Is he actually flirting with a married man? Adulterous circle of hell, here he comes, blown about in the winds of lust forever. Well, Satan’s going to have difficulty choosing exactly _which_ circle of hell to put him in, considering. A bit of extramarital lust isn’t going to make his life post-earth any more painful, if one believes the whole religious schtick.

_[Everything going okay?]_

_[yh, ur child just outta class]_

Marianne has just appeared, and Grantaire holds out his phone. “Quick, kid, pull a zombie face with me.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to convince your Dad to let me zombie-fie people.”

Marianne gives him a _look_ but then proceeds to contort her face in an impressive and terrifying manner. Grantaire takes a picture, sends it to Enjolras, and then they go home.

**

Enjolras gets the last message just as he gets back into his own office, and snorts so hard he nearly spills his coffee. It’s a picture of Marianne looking like she’s trying to bite Grantaire’s head off, both of them pulling grotesque faces, captioned: _[ur two fave zombies *zombie emoji* *zombie emoji*]._ One of his interns, Sabrina, is giving him a slightly cautious look, as though he’s grown a second head, and he thinks: god, he hasn’t actually laughed at work in at least a month. Perhaps he should text Grantaire more. Over text he’s less annoying, more irreverent, funny, a reminder that people exist _outside_ the halls of government.

“M. Enjolras, I printed the letters from your constituents that you wanted.” Sabrina finally approaches, as though she’s got over her shock at seeing him anything other than righteously angry or exhausted.

“Thank you, Sabrina,” Enjolras says, putting his phone down. Sabrina looks at it, curiously; the photo of Grantaire and Marianne glows for a second before blacking out, and she glances away, flushes.

“Your family are sweet,” she says, all in a rush. He freezes for a moment; family, family – she thinks that both of them are his family. Sure, he doesn’t have any pictures up on his desk of Combeferre and Marianne, so why would she think differently? It sends a little thrill through his stomach that he clamps down on straightaway. Grantaire is Marianne’s _babysitter_ and possibly, no definitely, turning into a friend. That’s it. Despite his random texting and his smiles and the fact he _listens_ when Enjolras goes off on a political rant (despite the fact he often doesn’t agree), he’s…and Enjolras doesn’t even feel uncomfortable, at the thought that Sabrina mistook them for a family. Combeferre’s been worrying, Enjolras knows, about this, about the fact that he has Éponine and Enjolras doesn’t have anyone yet. It’s good to have balance, in a mage family, if you can find it. He wonders…what would it be like, with Grantaire?

“Yes, they are,” Enjolras settles on, realising it’s been long enough to be awkward. “Grantaire likes to tease me.”

Sabrina gives him a smile and goes back to her desk on the other side of the room.

***

When Enjolras gets home, there’s loud rock music playing, and he walks straight into Marianne and Grantaire dancing around the kitchen with their arms stuck straight out like zombies. “Brain flesh!” Grantaire shouts as Enjolras walks in.

“Rawwwrgghh!” Marianne agrees, running straight at Enjolras, who shuts the door and lets her pretend to bite his arm.

“Good evening, citizen zombies,” he says.

“Good evening,” Grantaire replies, breathing heavily. “Come and join our zombie dance party. It’s the only antidote to maddening colleagues.”

The music is thundering drums and a voice wailing over piano and guitar. Enjolras puts his briefcase down. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Please Dad!”

There’s a challenge in Grantaire’s eyes, a shift in entropic balance feather-light against the back of Enjolras’ neck. He holds out a hand. The song cuts out, replaced by one with jangling piano chords, a driving beat. _I was just an only child of the universe, and then I found you, and then I found you_ _…_

Enjolras sighs and takes Grantaire’s hand, tries not to think too much of it, sees the lines of energy evaporating off their joined fingers, the increasing entropy in the air from all of the things he’s not saying buzzing and grating against his skin. It’s enough energy to flip the table over, if Enjolras was so inclined, but he’s not, he can’t think beyond the feel of their hands, the music. Grantaire’s fingers are rough, callused in ways Enjolras wasn’t expecting, his grip is strong, and Enjolras’ stomach is clenching, and they start to dance. It’s awkward, to begin with, moving his arms and legs in a way that isn’t his trademark ‘places to get to’ stride, but then he starts getting into the swing of it, relaxing. Marianne is busy jumping up and down and shaking her hair in the adorable, clumsy way of most under-tens. Grantaire spins Enjolras out, arm straining upwards to allow him enough space to duck under. The music is contagious, ridiculous, but this is fun, he realises after a second. He hasn’t danced since university, when Courfeyrac used to force him away from his books to go out with them; he’d forgotten how much he used to enjoy it. He nearly smacks his hip on the side of the table, but they keep dancing, and suddenly saving the world, and the persistent intruders at the sanctuary, and all the little irritations heavy on his shoulders – they all disappear, fade away. There’s only this moment. Grantaire, flushed and beaming, genuinely beaming, not sarcastic or defensive. Marianne singing along in her clear, childish voice and heavily accented English: _I_ _’m done with having dreams, the thing that I believe, you drain the fear from me…_

The song is drawing to an end. “Do you trust me, Apollo?” Grantaire shouts over the music, and Enjolras is about to give him a look but it’s too late because Grantaire is, inexplicably, trying to do some kind of dip, which bizarrely works until he takes it too far and they’re tipping backwards and backwards, and then hitting the floor with a thump. Enjolras stares at the weird, watermarked ceiling for a moment, with laughter crawling up his throat. The tiles are rough against his back. Marianne is still dancing.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, not sounding sorry at all. Enjolras laughs, looks over at him. The music changes, to something Enjolras possibly recognises from the radio.

“Don’t be,” he smiles, actually smiles, feels giddy and gleeful and about ten years younger. “You’re right. Zombie dance parties are fun.”

“BEYONCE!” Marianne screams.

***

One gross night in November, Enjolras manages to get home early enough to cook. The moment dinner’s done, Marianne runs into the sitting room to keep reading the new book she and Grantaire found at the library today, so Enjolras and Grantaire are just left at the kitchen table surrounded by dirty dishes.

“I’ll wash up,” Grantaire says. “You cooked.”

“No, no, it’s fine…”

“Apollo. You’ve had a long day in the Assembly. I’ve been sitting on the floor drawing and watching Marianne read. It’s fine.”

“I’ll dry,” Enjolras insists, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, marvelling at how domestic they’re getting. Look! Fighting over chores! Just like any regular couple except they’re not a couple but maybe definitely probably friends at this rate. Three months of being in each other’s space and having long rambling conversations over dinner has helped with that and the texting, which pretty much happens every day now even if it’s just Grantaire sending random photos of him and Marianne painting and baking and playing with Eggy, or Enjolras sending rants about his colleagues. He's fucked. He's absolutely and completely fucked, and you know what,  _fine._ Let him be fucked, for the next three months. Let him pretend that this could actually be something real. It's not going to make going away any easier, but it'll be something nice to cling onto for however long he's got left walking the planet. 

“If you insist.” Grantaire gets up to start running soapy water into the sink. Enjolras puts some quiet piano music on. “Wait, is this the How to Train Your Dragon score?”

“My sister can play the entire thing on the piano,” Enjolras says, grabbing a towel. Plates and cutlery chink together. “She’s very talented. I got her to record it for Marianne and I as a going-away present.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yeah. My Aunt Fantine accidentally got pregnant, so my parents adopted Cosette when she was born. She’s a human-rights lawyer down in Toulouse, now.”

“What about your parents?”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire flicks washing up water at Enjolras, grins. “I want to know if your whole family is over-achieving, or if it’s just you.”

“They’re retired, now, live on a lavender farm in Provence. Dad ran a shelter for people escaping abusive relationships in Toulouse, and Father was a police inspector. Fantine took over the shelter when Dad retired, but she’s an activist and general bane of the city council. Cosette’s sure there’s more than they tell us, but I’m not too bothered. Everyone’s got their secrets.” Their arms are brushing now. Enjolras is standing very, _very_ close. “What about you?”

“Secrets? That’s at least fifth date material, Apollo.” Grantaire’s sure this proximity is neither PG nor good for his heart. Enjolras is married, he shouldn’t be this _close,_ this isn’t _normal_ surely. Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly are cuddly, but they’re in an open relationship, so it’s not as weird. Grantaire can’t bring himself to step away. Enjolras is flushed.

“No, sorry – family. I meant family.”

“Oh, nothing to report. Only child. I haven’t seen or heard from them since I joined the army.”

Sums it up pretty nicely. Enjolras from a loving, overachieving, happy family. Grantaire was lucky if his parents were sober enough to remember his name.

“You were in the army?”

“Yep.” Grantaire rinses off the last plate, hands it to Enjolras. Their fingers brush, linger, like electricity. “Straight out of school. With them for six, seven years.”

“Interesting,” Enjolras says. “Wouldn’t have thought it.”

That’s a good thing. Hiding in plain sight. If no-one thinks he’s military, no-one thinks he’s a threat, just some average nearly-middle-aged white guy hanging out in the places he hangs out. Enjolras leans over to put the plate in the cupboard next to Grantaire, and Grantaire tries not to notice the way the shirt clings to his body, tries not to notice the fact that Enjolras is still standing too close.

“Well you know what they say,” Grantaire says. “Never judge a book by its cover.”

“And always be critical of the story it tells,” Enjolras finishes. They’re facing each other now, and Grantaire looks up into Enjolras’ face and thinks that if he went up on tip-toe, right now, they would be kissing. Enjolras looks like he isn’t going to move, like he’s entertaining similar thoughts but maybe that’s just Grantaire’s desperate brain, because for the last _fucking_ time, Enjolras is _married_ and Grantaire is not going to be a home wrecker and…Enjolras sways a little closer and god, is this really, this…

“Dad! I finished it!” Marianne tears into the moment like an intercontinental ballistic missile. Something quiet hisses, an invisible balloon deflates. Pressure squeezes the sides of Grantaire’s head for a moment, vice-like, then lifts. Enjolras shakes his head, as if to clear it, and turns to her, away from Grantaire, who is left staring at his back and wondering _what the fucking hell just happened_?

***

“Dad,” Marianne wanders into the bathroom whilst Enjolras is brushing his teeth one night. “Can I talk to you?”

“Mmhmm.” Enjolras spits out the toothpaste. “What’s the matter?”

Marianne sighs in a way that’s entirely Combeferre, sits on the closed toilet seat and brings her feet up to her chest. “After dinner I saw the news and they were saying…they were saying that Mme Myriel died like Pops' sister who's the lady who gave birth to me. You took me to meet her when we first came here with Pops. Grantaire turned it off but…but…”

Enjolras leans against the sink, waits expectantly for her to continue. Sabrina had brought him the news nearly instantly from Twitter, and he’d sat quietly for a few moments, turning his thoughts over and over like a pebble. Mabeuf, Magnon-DuPres, Myriel. Three deaths in nearly six months, the three other mages involved in politics apart from him. Sure, one was apparently a suicide, and one was an armed robbery gone wrong if one believes the news, but...still. It's enough of a coincidence to get him thinking. Marianne is frowning, twisting the ear of her stuffed cat. “I’m sad,” she finally settles on. “Mme Myriel was _nice._ ”

“I know, sweetheart,” Enjolras says, wishing Combeferre were here. They’ve always been upfront with Marianne about the difficult things, about death, about the state of the world, but Combeferre is so much better at explaining, at knowing how to talk to her. “She was. But she’s not here anymore, and that’s very sad, but it’s also just how it happens, sometimes.”

Marianne nods, presses the cat to her mouth. “Okay. Can I have a hug?”

“Always.” Enjolras sits on the floor under the sink, and Marianne crawls into his lap, presses her head against his shoulder. They sit quietly for a bit, and then Marianne says…

“Are you going to start dating Grantaire?”

Enjolras stiffens, and she giggles. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re acting like Pops did around Éponine, before she asked him out.” Her voice is very matter of fact, and Enjolras feels his face heat up. How his seven year old daughter has worked this out is beyond him – if she’s seen it, perhaps Grantaire has also noticed this annoying…crush sounds so juvenile, but crush is the only word he has to describe it – and oh, _lord,_ that is not an eventuality he particularly wants to consider. Grantaire will just laugh, make some flippant comment, leave Enjolras to deal with the consequences. There’s a reason mages tend to be quite careful with who they allow themselves to be attracted to.

“Am I now?”

“Yes! You go all pink and awkward when you’re around him like a flamingo!”

Marianne’s reasoning will always amuse and baffle him, in equal measures. “Why are flamingos awkward?”

“Because they have to stand on one leg all the time silly!”

“Why’s one leg awkward?”

“Because it is!” Marianne’s laughing now, and he breathes a sigh of relief at the distraction. Marianne’s like a dog with a bone when she gets an idea into her head, and whilst that will stand her in very good stead if she, say, decides to follow in his footsteps, it’s less of an endearment when she wants to discuss his love life. Which he’s happy being non-existent. He really is. He’s emotionally fulfilled, he has a wonderful platonic life partner, a daughter he never expected, dear friends… Grantaire’s irreverent smile sneaks into the back of his brain and he wants to scream. He doesn’t. He carries on talking about flamingos with Marianne and sends a picture of the two of them under the sink to Combeferre.

***

It’s nearly the Christmas holidays, and so Grantaire starts taking Marianne out to the Christmas markets and things because Enjolras is too busy to and Musichetta started telling him about how pretty the lights were the second she got back from Italy and had an evening off from the charity the three of them are working for at the moment. They get the Metro into the centre of Paris together, and then wander around the market set up outside Notre-Dame amongst the tourists and the pick-pockets. The gothic towers are evanescent and golden against the rich purple sky. Grantaire gets some mulled wine, lets Marianne have a taste and laughs when she wrinkles up her nose and says, “Eww, why do grown-ups _like_ that?”

Grantaire laughs. The stallholder hands him his change and smiles down at Marianne. “You’ll probably like it when you’re as old as your Papa here,” she says. Marianne is probably about to say ‘he’s not my father’ but that would be weird because Grantaire _doesn_ _’t_ look like your regular nanny/au pair/babysitter so just smiles and says thank you, towing Marianne away before she can say something that will probably get them landed in trouble. Surprisingly she doesn’t. She’s quiet until they’re standing in front of a stall selling glass decorations, and then says in a small voice:

“I wish Dad and Pops were here. Pops loves the Christmas lights, and Dad would say something about cap-i-ta-li-sm, and then Pops would roll his eyes and laugh and they normally swing me up and down and Pops stomps in the puddles with me and…”

Grantaire was not prepared for the tirade of emotions, shuffles his feet. “Yeah, kid. I know. But your Pops will really be in Paris for Christmas, didn’t Dad say? Shall we get some Christmas presents for them?”

Marianne brightens, and then they go around and snark to each other about all the weird stuff that the stalls are selling and debate the merits of homemade gifts versus bought ones, and then head home to hot chocolate, and when they get home Enjolras is actually there, leaning on the counter with his phone pressed to his ear.

“Look, Courf, I know, okay? Third time in six months, yes I don't think it was a straight suicide either, it's too coincidental…no we can’t go underground, you know I’ve got to stay here…my job, yes, no, I don’t care what the Circle want, the easiest way to stick it to them is to keep doing... anyway, there isn't enough evidence for…yeah well, keep your ears open, you know…sorry, Marianne’s home, I’ve got to go. Speak soon. Okay.”

He puts the phone down, and there’s a moment of quiet where he and Grantaire look at each other and something isn’t said and there’s a weird buzz of energy, vibrating invisibly somewhere in the corners of the room. Grantaire wonders what on earth he was talking about, _who_ he was talking to, in fact. Probably not someone from work. “Courf” sounded like a fond nickname. “Dad we went to the Christmas market!” Marianne squeals, totally oblivious to the tension. The moment breaks, like a wave.

“Did you?” Enjolras says. Grantaire flicks on the kettle, goes over to the fridge to fetch the oat milk. How one milks an oat he has no idea. It tastes not as bad as soy or almond, in any case. His brain skips back to that word as he starts to make the hot chocolate. Underground, underground. What the hell could Enjolras mean by that? As far as Grantaire knows it’s only the usual suspects who talk about going underground; assassins, crime lords, gangs etc. He’s spent three years underground, and every single second of it was hell; the constant instinct to jump at every sudden movement; the self-loathing of not being good enough, of not making a clean enough escape, of having to shed his old identity and forge a new one but still being the same terrified person shivering away underneath. It suddenly occurs to him as he stirs water into the chocolate powder that his last two hits were involved in politics - a deputy, and someone working in a deputy's office. That's more than usual, normally the forums are full of people's spouses and people's bosses, kill orders and scare orders that Grantaire tends to avoid because those kind of personal-grudge jobs are the worst, the ones that leave you drunk for a month over the fact you ruined the life of an innocent person over someone else's hurt feelings. He shudders. Not a helpful train of thought. There's a reason he only takes jobs from a few trusted sources, now. Back on track. Come to think of it, in the few times he’s watched the news…another deputy died recently in circumstances that looked entirely natural. Grantaire’s willing to bet that they weren’t. There was just something…off. So, that’s three French politicians in the last six months if you count the two marks he took. Politicians.

Enjolras is a politician, and a very vocal one at that. The thought is a train, veering straight off the edge of a cliff. _Shit._ What if someone has taken a hit out on Enjolras too? There hasn’t been much of a pattern from what he’s seen, no party allegiance or defining factor, but if he goes digging…

He and Marianne are still talking to each other about the Christmas market. One of the huge books is open on the table, with a script that looks a little bit like Ancient Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphics had a love child. Of course Enjolras can read bizarre ancient hybrid languages, this does not surprise Grantaire in the slightest. His brain is jangling, clattering, and he stares at this man, this _beautiful_ man and his sweet, fierce, ridiculous daughter, and thinks, _you_ _’re not going to die. I won’t let it happen._

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says, after a moment, looking up. Grantaire blinks, swallows.

“I’m gonna head upstairs for tonight, I think. Just remembered I promised I’d phone Bossuet.”

“Okay. Marianne what…”

“Thank you for the markets and the hot chocolate!” Marianne sing-songs.

“No worries, kiddo. Night.”

“Goodnight,” Enjolras says. There’s a worried crease between his brows. Grantaire heads to the door, and the second he’s out of sight, runs up the stairs to his own apartment, starts setting up the alternative router he’d knocked over a few weeks ago, logging in to Tor and finding the forums, hardly aware of what his fingers are doing. He feels sick, shaky. “Come on, _come on,_ ” he growls at it. It blinks back insouciantly, loading as slowly as possible. Even now, someone might be making plans for an attempt on Enjolras’ life. How could Grantaire have been so stupid? How could he not have realised that there was a link, realised that he’s been taking jobs regarding politicians and Enjolras is a politician and oh _god,_ he wants to _vomit._

He clicks on the set of links, and there, under recent posts, there it is, just like he knew it would be. A picture of Enjolras coming out of the National Assembly, red tie and French flag pin and suit, deep in conversation with someone at his side. The posting is anonymous, a kill order rather than a 'let's have a conversation shall we', the pay a similar size to the one Grantaire claimed for both Mabeuf and Magnon-DuPres, and it’s been claimed by user: _mpnasse <3_. Grantaire’s stomach drops through the floor. _Fuck,_ not this again, anything but them. He closes his eyes, remembers the bullets through his canvases, the bottles smashed all over the floor, the apartments turned upside down, and the perfect red roses balanced atop the carnage, velveteen and mocking, just the way Montparnasse had said, “but I love you,” right before they’d pulled the…seven years. He’s been seven years with neither hide nor hair of them, seven years to relax, to get complacent, to stop looking over his shoulder as much as he’d used to. Fuck. He’s got to get Enjolras out _right now._

**[to be continued…]**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to my awesome awesome beta, Marie, and there have been a couple of edits in the first chapter, just a brief heads up - if a couple of details have shifted here, that's why.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: some violence, mentions of past abusive relationship, suicidal thoughts.

Enjolras opens the door pretty quickly when Grantaire knocks. “Hi, did you forget something?”

“I need to talk to you,” Grantaire says. Enjolras gives him a strange look, and Grantaire realises this is the first time Enjolras has seen him in work-mode, serious and direct and none of the usual dicking around and being contrary for the hell of it. Enjolras steps back silently into the apartment, lets Grantaire in. Marianne comes running in from the sitting room, half of her hair cornrowed and the other half pinned in those weird clips hairdressers use.

“Grantaire!”

“Marianne,” Enjolras says, gentle. “Go back into the sitting room, okay? I’m just having a conversation with Grantaire. We’ll be there in a bit.”

Marianne pouts but does as she’s told. Enjolras turns back to Grantaire, folds his arms. Grantaire’s stomach sloshes about like the sea when it throws a tantrum, his hands clammy. How the fuck is supposed to tell Enjolras about this? “What’s happening?” Enjolras’ asks, in a perfectly calm, reasonable tone of voice, and the panic wells over, tsunami-esque, and Grantaire says, fast and a little high-pitched:

“Someone’s taken a hit out on you. No idea who, but we need to get out because I know the person who’s accepted the offer and they’re absolutely ruthless.”

Enjolras stares at him. Oh how the roles are reversed, Grantaire thinks wildly.

“You…how do you _know_ that?”

“Not the time for debating, get some things packed and…”

Everything happens very suddenly. Grantaire becomes aware of it milliseconds before it happens, lunges towards Enjolras to pull him down but the bullet that smashed through the kitchen window is frozen in mid-air, vibrating very slightly and Enjolras’ hands are flung out towards it. He’s breathing heavily and Grantaire can feel every single heartbeat vibrate around the room and then Enjolras ducks and the bullet smashes into the far wall above the fridge; simultaneously, the table flips and splinters into several pieces. There’s a moment of pure silence, and then Grantaire gets up, puts the fact Enjolras apparently just _stopped a bullet with the sheer power of his mind_ to one side, unholsters his new gun and shoves up his sleeves. Enjolras blinks at the knife strapped to his wrist. If only he knew just how many weapons Grantaire is carrying right now then he’d be a lot less shocked at just a knife.

“Get Marianne, get your coats, and wait for me in the stairwell, okay? I’ll be back.”

“Grantaire…” Enjolras starts, but Grantaire doesn’t give him time to answer, goes into Enjolras’ bedroom on the other side of the house, unhooks the window and slides out into the darkness. From a shot like that, Montparnasse could be anywhere, they’re slippery like that, but Grantaire knows that the second Montparnasse realises Enjolras has protection, they’ll scarper. They’ll regroup, they’ll plan. They’ve never been particularly good at thinking on their feet, nor at being subtle. That was always his purview. He climbs onto the roof and lies there for a moment, casing out the street; ah, there it is. A gun barrel, poking out of the attic window of the house opposite. Classic. With an angle like that, Montparnasse is lucky they’re not going to hit a passer-by down in the street. Grantaire aims his gun, closes one eye to sight and breathes, steady and slow, centering himself. Nothing but the target, that’s what Lieutenant St-Just used to say when they were out on patrol, when Grantaire was young and stupid and thought the army would solve _all_ of his problems. Breathe in, breathe out, shoot. There’s a couple of thumps, the tinkle of broken glass. He’s not sure if he hit Montparnasse from this angle, but the gun barrel is sharply withdrawn, and Grantaire breathes in another gulp of sharp December night air and tells himself that it’s all time, all time to get Enjolras and Marianne somewhere safe.

He slides back down into the apartment, boots crunching on the broken glass and heads out of the door, careful to lock it behind him, grabbing his phone and dialing Bossuet’s number. Enjolras and Marianne are waiting where he’d told them, both swaddled into their winter coats, Marianne’s half-done hair swaddled under a dark blue silk scarf. Enjolras is holding a bag, Marianne is clutching Eggy the kitten. Both look frightened, which is mostly the sensible human reaction to being shot at in your own home, but Enjolras is very obviously trying to keep it together for Marianne. Bossuet picks up.

“Yo, I thought you were round at Apollo’s tonight?”

“I need a car. Quickly.”

“I’ll meet you two blocks down from the Argentine Metro. Rue Weber. Half an hour.”

“Thanks.”

“Stay safe.”

Bossuet hangs up, and Grantaire pockets the phone. The solid weight of the knife against his forearm is oddly comforting, it always has been. “Follow me,” he says, abruptly. Enjolras opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but then thinks better of it and hoists a silent Marianne into his arms.

“Where are we going, Daddy?” she asks, and if Grantaire weren’t in work-mode, his heart would ache at how young she sounds. He forgets, sometimes, that she’s only seven.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras replies. “But we’re safe with Grantaire. I think.”

“Yes,” Grantaire bristles at the implication that they wouldn’t be, then reminds himself that Enjolras has only just found out about Grantaire being more than what he’d seemed and that was because a bullet had come through the window. A bullet that Enjolras had _stopped._ Christ, not now. “Just be quiet, okay. We’re heading to Marcadet-Poissonieres.”

“That’s not the nearest Metro to here. Simplon is closer.”

“That’s the one they’ll expect you to go to,” Grantaire snaps. “I know what I’m doing, okay?”

Enjolras subsides into silence. Grantaire’s footsteps echo on the pavement, the air is bitter and burns a freezing line into his lungs; he’s moving fast, but Enjolras manages to keep up, despite having the little limpet clinging to his side. They get to the station and get on the Metro and Grantaire changes lines four times, so it takes a little over forty minutes to get to Argentine and then it’s another quick jaunt into the back streets. Grantaire’s pretty sure he lost Montparnasse even if they were following in the first place. Bossuet is wrapped up in a coat, waiting near a perfectly ordinary suburban looking silver car with a dent in the bumper.

“Grantaire, man,” Bossuet comes over, only stumbling once, and wraps Grantaire in a hug that Grantaire will not admit to anyone ever was kind of needed. “What’s up?”

“Someone’s taken a hit out on Enjolras, and Montparnasse has taken it up. I’m getting him out of the city until we figure out what the hell is happening.”

“Montparnasse, damn, someone really _does_ want him dead. Well, we’ll see what we can do, eh?”

“You know you don’t have to clean up my messes for me, right?”

“Yeah well, it’s Montparnasse. This is a mess we’re personally involved in too, okay?”

“Don’t _remind_ me.”

“We’ll scare them off, don’t worry. Anyway. This is your Apollo guy right? Still fancy him?”

“Bossuet don’t you fucking dare…”

Bossuet lets go, and turns towards Enjolras and Marianne, grins and sticks his hand out. Grantaire mutters death threats under his breath, but stomps forward to unlock the car and check out the supplies Bossuet has left in the back. Well, more like Joly, considering there’s a note signed with a J and three kisses. There’s a box of tins, a first-aid kit, several boxes of ammunition handily disguised as batteries. Wait, one of them is actually a battery. From behind him, Grantaire hears: “Hi, you must be Enjolras, I’ve heard so much about you. And Marianne! R says you’re quite the artist!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” Enjolras says, in a strained, polite tone of voice.

“Bossuet. Grantaire and I go way back. I know all of this must be quite frightening, but believe me, he’s one of the best, so you’ll be perfectly safe. Just need to lay low for a bit, me and my team will track your little problem down and see if we can find out what’s causing it.”

There’s a hand tugging at Grantaire’s coat. Marianne is wide-eyed, her lip trembling. In the background, Enjolras is still talking to Bossuet, his face deadly pale and intent. “Hey kiddo,” Grantaire says, trying to blunt the anxiety sharpening his tongue. “What’s up?”

“I’m _scared_.”

Grantaire never knows when it’s okay to lie to a child. His mother used to lie _all_ the time, but did it do anyone any good in the long run? He sighs. “We’re just going on a trip, okay?”

“I heard the window smash and Dad break the table,” Marianne mumbles. “Is someone trying to kill us?”

He blinks at her, and then gets down onto his knees so he’s level with her face. “Honestly, yes. Someone is after Dad. But I promise I’m much more badass than them, and I’ll keep you both safe, okay? You have to trust me, like you do in the playground when we’re climbing.”

“You’re like Bucky, looking after Steve?”

“Yep, sounds about right. With you both till the end of the line, yeah?”

She nods and bites her lip. Eggy is dozing in her arms. Oh to be a cat and to not care about anything other than having a warm place to sleep and plenty of people to cuddle you. Grantaire opens the back door of the car. “Go on, how about you get yourself strapped in. Here’s a blanket, you’d better have some sleep while we drive, okay?”

Bossuet and Enjolras finish whatever they’re talking about, and Bossuet gives Grantaire a lazy salute, steps back into the curb as Grantaire starts up the car. “You’re driving,” he tells Enjolras.

“I need my mind free,” Enjolras snaps back.

“And I need my hands free in case we get _shot_ at again.”

“I can deal with a shooter.”

They glare at each other for a moment, and then Grantaire thinks about the bullet hovering in the air, the intense concentration on Enjolras’ face, and caves. He can always pull over if he has to shoot. “Fine. Get in. We need to leave.”

***

They drive pretty much through the night. Grantaire doesn’t really know where he’s going except _away_ and _out,_ taking the most erratic route possible. Enjolras is sitting perfectly straight in the passenger seat with his hands in his lap staring out of the front window, his shoulders so stiff you could crash a plane into them. Marianne went to sleep a while back. The car whooshes on the road and he weaves in and out of traffic. Enjolras knows, now, for better or for worse, and god, _I bet he hates me now,_ Grantaire thinks, feeling ill, seeing himself through Enjolras’ eyes. I’m some shady motherfucker who haunts the dark web and has connections and knows what to do when someone takes a hit out. Normal people wouldn’t have a clue how to respond. It’s why they’re so easy to kill.

It’s getting towards dawn when Grantaire finally steers them into a supermarket parking lot just outside of Nantes. “Where are we?” Enjolras finally asks, cold. Marianne begins to stir in the backseat.

“A supermarket carpark where I’m going to murder you,” Grantaire replies. “Get out, come on.”

“No, really.”

“Yes, really.”

“Why are you suddenly being so contrary again?”

“Apollo, haven’t you met me? Contrary is what I do. Look up defence mechanism in the dictionary. If you have to know, there’s a safehouse near here but I’m not telling you where it is.”

Enjolras glares at him and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”

They pack as many of the things into the bags as possible, and then leave the car with the keys in the ignition. Grantaire insists on them splitting up. Important part of going on the run; don’t look like the people or group being looked for. It’s raining in Nantes, so it makes sense for Enjolras to be buried in the hood of his coat, away from the cameras, and Grantaire takes a hangry Marianne and a very subdued Eggy the kitten. He lets Marianne whinge about food loudly. Going on the run isn’t about being quiet and stealthy, it’s about hiding in plain sight. People walking past obviously just think Grantaire is Marianne’s long-suffering father, just like the stall-lady did the other day. Perhaps it’s the shared wild hair, though Marianne does not look mixed-race enough for him to be her biological father. In any case, it’s amazing how blind most people are; too caught up in the tangle of their daily lives to even bother seeing what’s right in front of their noses. He takes Marianne to a little café on the corner of the street and plonks her down in a corner, checks all the sight lines. Enjolras goes into the shop opposite; a bookshop, of course.

“Can I have a pain au chocolat?” Marianne asks.

“Sure. What does Dad like?”

“Just coffee,” Marianne leans forward conspiratorially. “He’s really grumpy when he hasn’t had coffee.”

Grantaire gets the food including a little thing of chicken for Eggy the kitten because even cats need their stomachs filled. Marianne perks up and starts jabbering on about something or other, and the claws around Grantaire’s heart ease off slightly. Kids are so trusting, he thinks. To Marianne, he’s still Grantaire who does her painting and takes her on fun adventures and fails at cooking her dinner. He’s nothing more than what he’s always been. If only adults would be the same, but no, one thing happens and that’s a perception shifted, trust lost, something irreplaceable that will never be the same again. He’s holding out no hopes. Enjolras won’t want anything to do with him after this, Grantaire might as well revive his plans to get the hell out of their lives. Maybe Marianne will be sad, he thinks, but other than that it will be good riddance. Let Enjolras get on with changing the world without Grantaire’s baggage dragging him down. No aspiring politician needs a pet mercenary, not outside of fantasy fiction or the middle ages.

Enjolras meets them at the other end of the street and Grantaire shoves the coffee into his hands. “Soy,” he says, at the questioning look. “No, it’s not poisoned.”

“I would have been able to tell if it was,” Enjolras returns, taking a long drink. There’s a moment of silence, wringing its hands. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. His voice is grudging. Something inside Grantaire squeezes and squeezes and honestly, how long is it going to be before it all bursts?

“We’d better go. Not far now,” Grantaire says, breaking eye contact. They begin the march again, getting on different buses, chopping and changing, just in case Montparnasse picked up their trail. Grantaire’s pretty sure they haven’t, but it never hurts to be careful. The safehouse is in the Bellevue district, on the third floor of a tower block overlooking a main road that he randomly bought drunk after one of his marks. He unlocks the door and puts Marianne down in the musty smelling hallway. Enjolras wipes his feet carefully on the mat because _of course,_ and shuts the door behind them, taking off his wet coat.

“How about you and Égalité go and unpack the bag in the bedroom?” Enjolras tells her. “There’s a new book for you in it.”

Marianne looks between the two of them. “Is that code for ‘the grownups need to shout at each other?’”

“We’re not going to shout,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s heart picks up the pace again. They might not shout, but that doesn’t mean the conversation isn’t going to be extremely uncomfortable. Shouting might actually be good for them, clear the air like a thunderstorm. God knows it’s needed; Grantaire can feel the tension curling around them like a too-warm, stifling blanket. Marianne gives them both a _look_ and leaves. Grantaire opens the door to the kitchenette/living room, checks out of the windows. A puff of dust explodes from the carpet. Enjolras is silent, follows him in. Grantaire pushes himself up onto the counter.

“So,” he says.

“You knew what was going to happen.”

“Yes, well noticed,” Grantaire folds his arms, wonders if it’ll be any kind of defence. Enjolras is absolutely expressionless, his eyes icy, his back ramrod straight.

“Well noticed? Are you going to _explain_ anything more than that?”

“What the hell do you _want_ me to _explain_? I saved your fucking life! There was a listing on the forums, just like I said, and if I hadn’t got you out right then, Montparnasse would have killed you and probably Marianne as well!”

Enjolras blanches, but carries on, unstoppable. “What _forums_? What aren’t you _telling_ me? All these _friends,_ these _shady private security people_ you suddenly know…god, I left Marianne in your care for months, I…”

The pit falls out of the bottom of Grantaire’s stomach. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” he says, sliding off the counter, jabbing a finger in Enjolras’ direction. “They’re not shady in the fucking slightest, and I’m _not_ a paedophile, or a…whatever the hell you think I am. I would _never_ hurt Mari…”

“Well how am I to know that? I thought you were an _artist_!”

“I _am_ an artist!”

“No you’re not, you’re into all this…weird…”

“Ha and like _you_ can fucking talk, Mr I Stopped a Bullet with Sheer Power of My Mind – what the…”

“ _That_ is none of your business.”

“Well you can get out of mine as well!”

“No I _bloody well can_ _’t_ because we are _stuck here,_ in _Nantes of all places_ when I should be _at work_ and…”

“Oh _no_ the great crusader for justice misses a day, how the world _mourns_!”

“I object to the word crusade, they were colonial massacres that should never have happened.”

“I can’t _believe you_ ,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras clenches his fists and the lightbulb shatters. Luckily it wasn’t on. Glass goes all across the carpet narrowly missing Grantaire, but a shard slices a thin red line across Enjolras’ forehead. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“I’m sorry I…”

“That was your weird Jedi thing again?”

“I am not a _Jedi, god,_ ” Enjolras snarls, pulling the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and pressing it to his forehead.

“Then _what are you_?”

“Fine! A mage! I’m a mage! Happy now?”

“A…what?”

“ _Mages._ Magic. Wizards, but don’t ever call a mage a wizard, it’s not a complimentary term.”

“So you didn’t go to Hogwarts?”

“No I bloody well didn’t go to Hogwarts, Hogwarts is fictional!”

“Hate to point it out to you Apollo, but so’s magic. Technically.”

“Do you _want_ me to shatter another lightbulb to prove my point?”

“I appreciate you putting your communist ideology to good use, but the destruction of my private property would be a total nuisance when I have to sell this place.”

“Sell this…”

“I don’t keep safehouses like this after use.”

“You…safehouses…you have more than one of…”

“Of course I do, you’re not stupid so stop acting like it. Do you think it’s sensible to only have _one_ safehouse?”

“You’re not in private security, are you?”

“Yes I am.”

“No, you’re not. There’s something you’re not saying.”

“And how exactly do you know that?”

“Energy signatures.”

“That is a deep violation of my privacy right there, Apollo.”

“I can’t _bloody help it,_ you’re projecting! I don’t normally try and…”

“Look, you know what, I don’t care I…”

There’s a knock at the door. Grantaire freezes. His hand goes for his gun, he’s about to say “get down” but Enjolras calls out, “Come in!”

“What _the hell_ are you…” Grantaire shoulders past him, unholsters the gun and flips the safety off. There’s a sound of wheels on carpet, footsteps. He centres himself. If Enjolras wants to be this flippant about their _fucking_ safety, then he can do another magic trick on the bullet Grantaire’s about to…

“Well, _this_ is quite a welcoming committee,” the guy says, totally ignoring Grantaire’s gun. He’s got curly dark hair, light-brown skin, dark eyes, and his smile could probably put a fireworks show to shame. “Hi, I’m Courfeyrac. You must be Grantaire.”

Grantaire doesn’t lower the gun. “Nope, wrong, my name is _how about you don_ _’t move an_ _inch_ until you’ve told me who the fuck you are and how you found us, huh?”

“Grantaire, put the gun _down,_ ” Enjolras snaps, shoving past and trying to shove the gun away from these _intruders,_ and Grantaire hisses at him because the safety is _not_ on and does this man know _anything_ about proper gun conduct? “They’re with me.”

“What do you mean _with you,_ you’re not meant to have anyone _with you,_ we just drove five hundred kilometres to get you _to safety away from people._ ”

Enjolras is not listening. He is currently hugging the man named Courfeyrac who is clinging to him like a limpet on a sea-weedy rock. It drags on way too long and Grantaire is jittering because what if they’ve been followed, they need to be on guard, if they broke the lock on the door it might still be open. “Enjolras, you have not given me _answers._ Enjolras. We don’t have time to _cuddle._ ”

“He’s just been through a pretty traumatic experience,” a voice says from behind Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “A moment to breathe won’t hurt anyone.”

“A moment to breathe can kill you.”

“Shut up, Grantaire, we’re perfectly safe.”

“No, we’re not. If your… _friends_ …can track us down that means other people might be able to as well! God, do you know nothing?”

Enjolras lets go of the man named Courfeyrac and turns on Grantaire. “No, because surprisingly enough, no one has tried to _assassinate_ me before!”

“Well how about you fucking _listen_ to the guy who _does_ know what he’s talking about, huh?”

“Okay,” the fourth voice says again, and there is the sound of wheels on cheap carpet. “Enjolras, darling, move, I can’t get in. Right.”

Enjolras has shifted to allow the owner of the fourth voice actually into the door of the main room. They’re sitting in a wheelchair of some kind, which explains the sound of the wheels, wearing a jumper dress stitched with hundreds of multi-coloured flowers and a matching crown. Their hair is red and their skin is pale and they’re smiling, though it’s quiet and sharp and says _I am dangerous just try me._ Great, another dangerous person, _exactly_ what Grantaire needs right now. “Not to be patronising,” the owner of the fourth voice says, “but nothing’s going to get solved if you two just keep shouting at each other. Grantaire, we’ll happily explain how we got here, and I promise no-one followed us. I’m Jehan, by the way, they/them before you ask.”

“He/him,” Grantaire says reflexively, and Jehan’s smile widens a fraction.

“I guessed as much from what Enjolras said. Right, well…”

Before they can finish their sentence, there’s a squeal and Marianne is running down the corridor, screaming in a pitch nearly too high for human ears. Jehan manoeuvres backwards to allow her some space to throw her arms around their shoulders, leaning over the back of their chair.

“Jehan! Courf!”

“Hello, squirt,” they say. Courfeyrac gives her a wave from over on the counter where he’s decided to perch. “Your hair’s a mess! What’s Dad done this time?”

“We had to leave in a hurry so he didn’t have time to finish.” Marianne says.

“Well that’s vexing. Change of plans, people, I’m going to sort out Marianne’s hair, Courf will explain and referee, is that okay?”

“Fine by me, amor.” Courfeyrac leans back, apparently relaxed.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asks.

Jehan shrugs. “You know I love spending time with my favourite girl. You can catch me up in the van.”

With that, they wheel themselves down the corridor after Marianne. Grantaire can hear her, giddy with excitement: “Dad forgot to finish my cornrows because we had to leave quickly, but he got me a kitten in Paris do you want to see her?”

The door down the corridor shuts. Silence stretches, pretending to be asleep. Enjolras scrubs a hand over his face. “Where were we?”

“Fighting,” Grantaire replies. He still hasn’t put the gun away, still doesn’t know how to tame the anger howling through his head like a particularly vicious gale. “What the _hell_ , Enjolras? How did they find us?”

“I told them.”

 _Bloody_ typical. “What part of _safehouse_ didn’t you understand, exactly?”

Enjolras is glaring right back again, and good, let’s really get into it again, Grantaire thinks. He could do with blowing off some steam, doesn’t have the time to find a bar and get into a good bar fight. Montparnasse is back in his life, he’s stuck in fucking Nantes with Enjolras, and now turns out they were followed _without Grantaire even bloody realising,_ for fuck’s sake does Enjolras not realise how important this is? How a safehouse _means a fucking safehouse?_ God, he can’t even keep Enjolras safe, what a fucking failure he is. “Courfeyrac and Jehan are very old friends, and they were on the way to Paris anyway.”

“Well I’m sorry the little matter of your _near-death_ interrupted all your lovely magic plans, but we don’t have time for social calls…”

“If it helps, it isn’t a social call. We were coming to help.” Courfeyrac runs a hand through his hair, gives Grantaire a _look_ , somewhat measuring.

“Help with  _what_ exactly?”

“There have been some troubling incidents, other than just the attempt on Enjolras’ life yesterday,” Courfeyrac says, careful, glancing between the two of them. “Attacks, suicides. Mabeuf, Magnon-DuPres, Mme. Myriel…”

Grantaire’s stomach implodes, his knees shake, and he reaches out for the wall, wishes he could run, wishes he could find a bottle of vodka and escape from this awful situation this…

“Connected, yes I reached that conclusion too,” Enjolras replies. “Still no idea who’s behind it, though…”

“Yeah, Jehan and I have been trying to piece it all together – Grantaire, man, are you alright? You’ve gone very pale.”

 _Fuck,_ Grantaire thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is it. This is the end of the road, the moment of truth. It shimmers on the horizon like a mirage, is dawning in Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire always knew he was smart, decides to rip the plaster off because surely it’s better than watching Enjolras put it together. It’s always been his way; shoot first, ask questions later. Probably how he got the reputation for being so ruthless in the first place, probably how he got into this entire mess too.

“You’re an ass…” Enjolras starts.

“Involved,” Grantaire corrects, his hands shaking. Reality pauses, waits. Into the vacuum, Grantaire says: “Mabeuf and Magnon-DuPres.”

The look on Enjolras’ face would be enough to strike a man dead.

***

There’s a whoosh of pressure suddenly being released that usually comes hand in hand with truth-telling. Enjolras’ ears are ringing, and he stares at Grantaire, who is staring back, ghostlike. The anger tastes coppery in Enjolras’ mouth, like blood.

“Okay, so,” Courfeyrac says, “who hired you. For them.”

“I don’t know, it’s anonymous,” Grantaire says, just as Enjolras finds his words.

“I think we’re missing _the point_ here.”

“Oh no,” Grantaire straightens. He’s still got that bloody gun in his hand, still got the knife strapped to his forearm. Everything suddenly makes so much sense. The baggy jumpers, the random scars, the surprising strength with which he’d dipped Enjolras when they were dancing. The fact he never appeared to have any work on, the secrecy, the…

“ _You_ killed Mabeuf and Magnon-DuPres? You’re an assassin?”

Grantaire’s face has gone entirely blank, cold. “Not killed. I talked to them.”

Enjolras snorts, disbelieving. “Talked, _right._ And then suddenly Deputy Mabeuf has killed himself, and Mme. Magnon-DuPres was apparently shot in the _head_ in a robbery gone wrong.”

“I did my _job,_ Apollo, just as Montparnasse will if you don’t focus on staying alive. We don’t have time for this.”

“Don’t have time for what? Getting to the bottom of the fact that, because of _your_ actions, two good people are _dead?_ We have plenty of time for _that._ ”

“No, we don’t. This isn’t the time or the place. We need to make sure you’re _safe_ before you go throwing around accusations of _murder._ _”_

“Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t killed people,” Enjolras snaps, the words coming out of his mouth nearly without permission, flaying open his tongue. Grantaire drops his gaze, stares at the floor. “You have.”

“We don’t have _time_ to talk about this.”

“You’ve killed people.”

“What do you want from me?” Grantaire turns, paces over to the window. Enjolras can feel his heart hammering against his chest, waiting for Grantaire to deny it, wishing he would just say the words, say ‘no, I haven’t’ but of course it’s not going to happen. “I’ve killed people. I’m a murderer, fine. Can we please move on?”

“Move on? Aren’t you even sorry?”

“Job.”

“You _killed_ people! You worked as a _hitman_?”

“Yes, Apollo!” Grantaire snaps. That stupid teasing nickname makes Enjolras’ fists clench. “I was there when I made those particular horrific life choices, thanks for the reminder. _Focus._ We’ve got to make a plan now that your friends are here, there’s no…”

The words haze out around the edges. Enjolras stares at Grantaire’s face, searching for any hint of remorse, any sign that Grantaire is sorry because if that was the case then perhaps he could calm down, perhaps he could think rationally, but Grantaire is just staring at him, all hard lines and unflinching eyes and Enjolras can’t see the man who’d goofed around with Marianne, the man who’d sent him all those stupid jokes just to make him laugh, the man whose smile had made Enjolras’ stomach do strange things. That man was obviously some kind of performance Grantaire put on, a convenient mask. This is the real person, cold and furious and deadly. God, how could he have been so _stupid_? How could he have left Marianne with this man? How?

“How do I know that you wouldn’t have killed me and Marianne?” Enjolras asks, finally. Courfeyrac shifts uncomfortably next to him.

Grantaire’s mouth twists, hard. “Don’t you _dare._ ”

“Well, I don’t _know_ do I?”

“I would _never_ hurt _either_ of you. Give me more credit than that.”

“I can’t,” Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, turns to Courfeyrac who just shrugs, unhelpfully. “I…I left Marianne alone with a murderer, _god,_ I never should have, I…”

“The _fuck,_ Enjolras?” Grantaire doesn’t shout, but when Enjolras looks at him, he’s scowling. “You _know_ I wouldn’t have hurt her, _ever,_ I would lay down my life before I let anything happen to her, you _have_ to believe me on that!

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Enjolras tells him savagely, watching his face crumple for a second before the flat mask is back.

“And I am going to interrupt,” Courfeyrac says, “because we need to get going. This is going nowhere.”

“Where?” Grantaire asks immediately. Enjolras rounds on him.

“You’re not coming.”

Grantaire snorts, derisive. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“We can deal with this Montparnasse person,” Enjolras snaps. It’s true, especially if they go to the warden’s house in Lourdes. You could even hold out against the Circle there, if you had to. It’s a good fortress.

Grantaire is glaring. “You might think that…”

“I _know_ that!”

“No, you don’t. You need me. I’m an expert in assassins, and an expert in Montparnasse. They’ll hit you right in your weak spot, don’t think they won’t.”

“Another one of your buddies…”

“Anger is going to get you nowhere. Be rational, for god’s sake, think of Marianne. Do you want her to lose her father?”

The fury is like a choke-hold; Enjolras just about reins in the flash of energy evaporating off his skin, stops the windows shattering totally out. “Courfeyrac, we’re leaving.”

“I’ll go and get Jehan and Marianne,” he says, disappears out of the door in a crunching of glass. Enjolras looks at Grantaire, sees the hurt surface for a moment, feels the same echo somewhere deep in his gut, feels the missed opportunity burning his skin, hard and fast. There’s the sound of voices and wheels and the squeak of an annoyed kitten.

“Apollo…” Grantaire starts.

“Don’t.”

Enjolras turns to go. When they reach the van, parked outside, he feels a prickle at his neck, looks up to see Grantaire standing in the window, one hand against the glass. He’s not upset, Enjolras tells himself. It’s a good riddance.

“Where’s Grantaire?” Marianne asks, after a moment.

“He’s staying behind, sweetheart,” Courfeyrac jumps in when it becomes clear Enjolras isn’t going to.

“Why?”

Another glance over. Enjolras gets into the driver’s seat, holds out his hand for Courfeyrac’s keys.

“He’s going to help from here, with his friends,” Courfeyrac invents, wildly, dropping the keys into Enjolras hand and folding up the ramp into the back of the van. The lie hovers in the air like the smell of burnt plastic before it fizzles out. Thank God Marianne hasn’t started her training yet, won’t be able to tell what the feeling is. “I’m sure you’ll see him soon.”

“Okay,” Marianne says, quiet, and Enjolras tries not to feel the tug on his heartstrings. It’s better in the long run. She’ll understand, he hopes, if not until she’s older. He breathes,  The door slams shut, and Courfeyrac is suddenly leaning over his shoulder, pressing a few buttons on the radio. Reggaeton starts spilling out, and Enjolras starts the engine.

“You okay, bud?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, breathing through the plastic smell. He’s going to really have to get used to this, to the sad pop of energy a lie always brings; it feels stronger here, than with his colleagues up in Paris. _It_ _’s because you care,_ a little voice says in the back of his mind, _don_ _’t you remember anything Dad taught you?_ Courfeyrac doesn’t push, and for that, Enjolras is grateful. “You said you had something about the Circle you needed me to know?”

***

Grantaire stands at the window, watching the van drive away. It was probably once a plain old silver Transit, but someone has painted it into a beautiful replica of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The artist in him is deeply appreciative, the mercenary wants to scream at them to go find something less goddamn trackable. He’s still pretty sure Montparnasse isn’t in Nantes, though, so hopefully they won’t be able to link the van to Enjolras.

Enjolras. Oh fuck. There’s a moment of stillness, and then Grantaire whirls around, goes into the kitchenette and claws through the cupboards, opening and shutting them. No, nothing, no…his bag. It’s still there, where he left it in the hallway and digs into it, finding the bottle Joly had left in the car. It’s medicinal, of course it is, but he doesn’t care and suddenly his knees decide they don’t want to work, and his cheeks are wet and he’s on the floor unscrewing the cap with blurring hands and tipping a huge gulp into his mouth. It burns, more than he’d expected it to, but he swallows, and then swallows another gulp, because _god,_ what was he thinking? Of _course_ Enjolras hates him now, of _fucking course,_ Enjolras is light and good fucking personified and Grantaire’s a little sewer worm who crawled out of the gutter and into his life and…and Marianne. What’s Enjolras going to tell Marianne about him? In a way, it’s easier to cope with the loss of what could have been than what definitely was; Marianne _loved_ him, and he, god, he loved her, the silly child with her snark and her ridiculousness and her huge, _beautiful_ heart.

He _told_ himself not to get attached. Stupid, worthless, fucker. He drinks another huge gulp of the alcohol, waits for the numbness but it’s not coming, he just feels ill. He knows he shouldn’t have attached all his hopes on getting out of the underworld to them, knew it was just a fantasy, a respite from the fucking farce that is his life…oh, _god,_ why did he say yes all those years ago? Why did he let the anger at the world and Le Cabuc and the fucked up system take over his brain? Why didn’t he tell them to fuck off, gone back into the real world like every other person, why had he fallen in love with Montparnasse and just stayed, ignored the way his hindbrain spent the better part of a year screaming at him to get out? How did he manage to fuck up this badly? God, he wishes he could just die. Surely the world would be a better place without him, surely he doesn’t have to take one more step. It would be so easy. Musichetta and Bossuet and Joly would grieve, and maybe Bahorel, but they’d move on, and then life would be better, and people wouldn’t die at his hands anymore and…there is literally a knife strapped to his forearm, right now, a gun not seven feet away in the kitchen. He could do it. He absolutely could do it. He’s staring at the knife now, the thick leather sheaf, the matte black handle. It has its own kind of gravity. All weapons do, even when you’re used to them, even when using a gun is absolutely second nature.

His phone buzzes, jerks him out of his head. He takes another swig, pulls it out of his pocket hoping for something from Enjolras and kicking himself when it’s just an unknown number. Burner phone, he thinks.

            _[MP slipped net. No idea where they are. Do you need reinforcements?]_

It’s like a slap around the face. He stares at it for a second, and then scrambles upright, leaving the bottle on the floor, scoops up his bag and finds his gun in the kitchen. If Montparnasse has gotten away, they could be _anywhere_. Whatever Enjolras and his friends think, they’re not safe. Grantaire’s got to go, he’s got to, because this is a fact: Enjolras is _not_ going to die whilst Grantaire is still breathing. He doesn’t care how much Enjolras hates him. It’s penance, though not nearly enough. Maybe if he saves Enjolras it’ll be enough to kick him out of the poison inertia of doing the same thing he always has, maybe he’ll finally get the opportunity to take out Montparnasse and stop looking over his shoulder, maybe, when all is said and done and Enjolras is alive and Grantaire has fucked off, he’ll be able to settle, to buy a flat in a new city and stay there for the rest of his life, work on getting clean. Get a job that doesn’t stain his hands with blood. Start paying back to society. Finally come to terms with the fact that the last twelve years have been pretty _shit,_ that he never wanted to end up like this, that life spiralled out of control and he just had to keep his head down, just had to keep breathing. His eyes are painful with tears. There’s going to be no peace, no closure, no forgiveness if he disappears now - he’ll still be running from the shadow of Montparnasse, still locked into the wicked cycle he’d started when he’d joined the mercenary camp, twenty-five and hurting and furious, and Enjolras…Enjolras will be dead. That is something Grantaire would never forgive himself for, not when he has the chance to write a different ending.

_[No. Meet me in Lourdes, ASAP. Protection detail.]_

The message comes back, quick, reassuring.

_[You got it, boss. Give us till tomorrow morning.]_

Right, Grantaire thinks grimly, holstering the gun and locking the apartment door behind him. Let’s go steal a car.

***

They arrive in Lourdes just as the sun sinks below the Pyrenees in a blaze of oil-paint orange. The town is quieter than when they left, and Enjolras easily guides the van through the streets, down past the Rosary Basilica which is nothing more than a skeletal, gold-dipped silhouette in the twilight, and down the narrow tree-lined road towards the Eyrie. It’s not actually an eyrie in the mountains, but Enjolras loves the name, has always loved the house; it guards, it watches over. He used to wander around the grounds as a child when Fantine was the warden, finding reading spots and other curiosities, sometimes with a tiny babbling Cosette in tow. She used to follow him everywhere as a toddler.

He pulls the van around to the gate and gets out into the dark to work the runes, pressing lightly and feeling the hum of magic through his bones. The gates recognise his touch, creak open, and he gets back into the van. Marianne has climbed into the front seat, clutching Eggy, and they go down the driveway and then they’re there. Combeferre is waiting on the steps, and he comes over the second the van has stopped.

“Pops!” Marianne shrieks, opening the door and flinging herself bodily into his arms.

“Darling! I missed you so much!”

“I missed you _too_!”

Enjolras can’t help but smile at this, at the look on Combeferre’s face, at the feeling of being home. He’s not thinking about the home they’d made in Paris with Grantaire. He’s _not._ That is dead and gone and _over._ He gets out of the van, goes around; Combeferre holds out an arm to him as well, and he joins the hug, wraps his arms around the both of them and breathes. It’s alright. This is home, this moment, being with the two of them, being back together. He’d forgotten how much of an ache there is whenever they’re apart.

Courfeyrac is unfolding Jehan’s ramp, and Jehan wheels themselves out of the van, down onto the gravel. “Brr, it’s colder than I expected,” they say. “You can cuddle inside, people. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Of course,” Combeferre says. Enjolras steps away from the hug, but Combeferre catches his hand, holds on tight. “Dinner will be ready in an hour or so, if you’re not too tired. That would probably be the best place, seeing as nearly everyone’s here for Christmas. Éponine just went to pick Gavroche and Azelma up from community theatre.”

“Sounds good,” Courfeyrac takes the handles of Jehan’s wheelchair. “We’ll go and rest for a bit, then.”

“Rest,” Jehan says with a laugh. “Right, okay. Lead on, darling.”

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Marianne follow the two of them into the house, the lock lights of the van blinking neon orange. Cosette is waiting in the living room doorway, in a huge old jumper Enjolras remembers Fantine wearing about the place when they were small, greets them both with a soft hug. Marius hovers behind, awkward; Enjolras gives him a smile instead of stressing him out with a hug. He doesn’t like much physical contact. “Hello, Marianne,” Cosette says. “How’s Paris?”

“Not as good as here,” Marianne announces. “Apart from Grantaire. If Grantaire were here, it would be _perfect._ ”

“Grantaire?” Cosette asks, her eyes flickering up to Enjolras. He shakes his head, minutely, and she nods. Combeferre’s fingers tighten on his, reassuring. “That’s your babysitter, right? Well, maybe after dinner you can help me with the washing up and tell me all about him, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Marianne bounces on the spot. “Can we go play piano before dinner, please, Aunt Cosette?”

“Of course,” Cosette smiles, indulgently. “Lead on, then.”

Marius goes with them, electing to sit on a chair and read a huge book in German. Combeferre and Enjolras sit down on the comfortable sofa on the other side of the room, half-watching Marianne crash the keys. Enjolras rests his head against the back of the sofa, breathes in the smell of dust and old magic, and the feel of Combeferre’s hand in his. Combeferre doesn’t even bother with the “are you alright?” not after all these years. He just gives Enjolras a steady look and says:

“I don’t think there’s any point talking about it now, because Éponine will be back soon, and Feuilly’s cooking, but how about we go for a walk after Marianne’s gone to bed, okay?”

He doesn’t really want to talk about it, but he and Combeferre vowed honesty to each other in their twain ceremony, and to be honest Combeferre’s gentle logic might be exactly what his brain needs. _Sometimes they_ _’ll know what they need, sometimes they won’t. It’s your job to find out, and to give it to them, as best as you can_ Dad says in his head.

“Okay,” Enjolras says. Marianne plonks a wrong note, and Cosette laughs, silvery. “Yes. Thank you.”

Combeferre gives him an endlessly gentle look over the top of his glasses, and Enjolras pretends he’s got dust in his eye and isn’t fighting the urge to cry.

***

Lourdes is bigger than Grantaire expected, and he drives in past the sign and thinks _fuck. Now where?_ Enjolras said Lourdes, but where even do a load of wiz…mages live? The castle? That’s where most magic tends to happen in fairytales, but Enjolras made it quite clear that their kind of magic is nothing like that and…maybe he could ask someone? It sounded from what Enjolras used to say that Combeferre is quite an upstanding member of the community because of course he is, he’s bloody perfect. Perhaps someone would just _know_ where he lives. People tend to think assassins and hit-people live super complicated highspeed high tech lives, but what they haven’t yet realised is that it’s amazing how far a little common sense gets you. Or a little common courtesy. He drives past some kind of community centre, sees the door open and light spill out in a narrow beam of yellow-gold. Three people emerge, a woman with wild auburn ringlets, a boy with an impressive afro, and a teenage-age girl with dark hair. Nice one, approaching a woman in a dark parking lot, but it’ll have to do.

He pulls over onto the side of the road, gets out and jogs over. “Hi, excuse me?”

The woman steps swiftly in front of the kids, her hand going to her purse. Grantaire puts up his hands in the universal symbol that he’s harmless, part of his brain wondering if she’s their mother. She looks a lot too young to have two teenage children, but then again you never know. People’s lives are astounding. “I’m ever so sorry to bother you, Madame, I’ve just driven in from out of town and I’m a bit lost.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Where are you trying to go?”

“I’m trying to find out where this guy lives – Yves Combeferre? You wouldn’t happen to know would you?”

Her whole body stiffens, her fingers tighten on something. “Gavroche, Azelma, get in the car.”

“Éponine do we…”

“Now.” Her voice is like a whip. The kids open the car door, climb inside. “Who are you?”

“You know him?”

She glowers. “Can’t say I don’t. You haven’t answered my question.”

“My name’s Lucien Grantaire, I’m a friend.”

“Grantaire…do I know you?”

“I’m…more friends with René Enjolras. His…partner.”

“Enjolras in Paris, surely? He’s one of the deputies for Toulouse.”

“You know him?”

Éponine gives him a hard look; Grantaire respects her for how good she is at dissembling. It would work on anyone who didn’t know better. “How do I know you’re Lucien Grantaire?”

“You don’t,” Grantaire says, wondering how she's connected to them. A random stranger wouldn't act this suspicious. “I have ID, but that’s easily faked. You’re welcome to see it, though, if you want. It’s…I’m here to help.”

“To help.”

“Yeah, there was an incident, in Paris. I used to live upstairs, babysit his kid, Marianne? Painted her walls for her and stuff - Rey and Princess Shuri. We never finished Wonder Woman.”

The woman raises her eyebrows. “Okay, so you would have really had to go creeping around their house to know that. Fine. Not going to lie, this is somewhat unnerving because I don’t actually know you, dark carpark etc…”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I know this isn’t the most ideal situation.” God, reassuring is really not his thing. Joly would have been much better at this.

“Yeah well, I’m just going to give Combeferre a quick ring. And I’m armed, so don’t try any funny business, okay?”

Grantaire retreats a few steps, lets her reach for her phone. There’s a pepper spray in her other hand. Gah, those things are nasty, like the cockroaches of the self-defence and armament world. Small, mighty, and fucking indestructible. She dials, holds the phone up to her ear.

“Yeah, hi, yeah I’m fine, no, there’s a guy who’s come up to me in the carpark, claims to know you. Well know Enjolras, actually…yeah, Lucien Grantaire, yeah like Marianne’s babysitter that Rene won’t say much about…but he mentioned the murals…unfinished Wonder Woman, yeah, okay…well, if you’re sure…you’ll track the car, right?…good, okay…huh, really?…well Enjolras blows a gasket regularly when he’s talking about politics, I don’t…yeah that’s sensible…okay, bye.”

She’s still frowning. “Get in the car. Combeferre wants to see you, and I live with them so I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’ll just get my bag, give me a second.”

“Fine.” She turns, raps on the window. “Azelma, get in the back with Gav please.”

Grantaire jogs away from the sound of teenage whining, gets his kitbag of weapons and supplies out of the back of the vehicle, and leaves the key in the ignition. It was a good idea to go via one of his store boxes, he thinks. Never bad to be prepared. The girl, Azelma, has got into the back of the car, and Grantaire slides into the front, dumping his bag at his feet.

“Who’s this?” the boy, Gavroche, demands, sticking his head through the gap in the seats. Éponine starts the car, pulls the gearstick roughly into reverse.

“A friend of Enjolras’.”

“Bloody hell, I didn’t think Enjolras knew how to make _friends_. Has hell frozen over yet?” Gavroche grins, and then disappears back into his phone. Grantaire snorts. Hell won’t stay frozen for long.

“Shut up,” Éponine says, half-heartedly. They’re driving through the centre of the town; a few restaurants are open, but it’s mostly dark and quiet. They take a turn past the famous church Grantaire remembers seeing at some point during his education, and down a forested road; through the trees he can see the moonlight glimmering on dark water like an impressionist painting. They get to a pair of tall gates in a long stone wall which open of their own accord, and then down a longish driveway lined with carved stones, and into a semi-circular gravelled area in front of a house that in sunlight would probably be yellow, if you could see through the vines trying to eat it alive. Éponine pulls up next to the Van Gogh Van that belongs to Courfeyrac and Jehan. There’s a man waiting on the three graceful steps arching to the front door; he’s illuminated by the soft glow of the outside lights, and Grantaire is nearly totally sure this is Combeferre. He clenches his fists. Finally he gets to meet the paragon that is Enjolras’ husband, god, what was he thinking? Perhaps he should have just lurked around, tried to catch Montparnasse as they cased the place, perhaps he could have done this silently, invisibly, a debt paid for the deaths of Magnon-DuPres and Mabeuf without them even realising it, but no, he’s had to pick the loudest, most obvious way to make amends. Not that it will even work. Enjolras hates him. And, to be honest, that’s justified - Grantaire long ago accepted that his career path was far beyond the line of despicable, that all his weak attempts at changing, at making amends  but…they were friends, if you ignore the ramblings and wishful thinking of Grantaire’s deliriously in-love brain. Enjolras always invited him to stay for dinner. They’d have long rambling conversations about politics after Marianne had been put to bed. Surely he could have let Grantaire explain himself, given him a chance. It’s not even as if the story justifies the last thirteen years of his life, but at least it would be told, at least there might be a sliver of an understanding. Well, no hope now. Might as well get it over with.

Éponine has already left the car, as have the kids, so Grantaire gets out with his bag. The weapons inside clink reassuringly, and he walks across the gravel. “Hello,” Combeferre says, holding out his hand. “I’m Yves Combeferre. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, willing himself not to say something idiotic. Combeferre’s voice is much quieter than Grantaire imagined, and he has an entirely undecipherable look on his face that makes Grantaire squirm. He’s faced down the most hard-assed mercenaries out there, once, and walked away. This is _nothing._ He takes the outstretched hand, and feels a flash of something sharp judder through him, ice-cold. Jerking backwards, he stares at Combeferre, grits out: “What _the hell_ was that?”

Combeferre has the grace to look apologetic. “I’m sorry. It was a spell to make sure you’re who you say you are. Precautions, you understand.”

“Who else would I be?”

“You might not believe the magic that exists in the world if I were to…”

There are footsteps, brisk, and then Enjolras is barrelling into the conversation like a freight train headed for a precipice. “What _the actual hell_ are you doing here, Grantaire?”

The outright hostility hurts worse than the weird spell Combeferre did. Grantaire glares, hoists his bag higher onto his shoulder, cursing the fact that Enjolras’ sheer beauty is enough to drive anything resembling calm, logical thought from Grantaire’ head. He’s wearing a dark red jumper and jeans, and in the lamplight he _glows._ Grantaire’s eyes flicker up to the red line on Enjolras’ forehead, feels his stomach clench. “Montparnasse slipped the net in Paris. I’m here to protect your sorry asses.”

“We don’t _need_ protecting!”

Grantaire grits his teeth, wonders how long he’d have to bash this into Enjolras’ head to make him _accept that he can_ _’t escape Montparnasse alone._ “Yes, you do. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“And why exactly should I believe a professional liar? How do I know you’re not coming in here to…”

Oh god, not this, not this again, for _fuck_ _’s_ sake: “To do what, exactly?”

“Put my family in danger, upend everything…”

“Look, I’m only staying until Montparnasse is dealt with. But you need me; you don’t want to find out the fucking hard way, Apollo, you really don’t. _How many times_ do I have to tell you I know first-hand what they’re capable of?”

Enjolras’ eyes narrow, glitter like ice-cold shards of diamond. “What _they_ _’re_ capable of? You have no idea what _we_ _’re_ capable of, we’re…”

“Grantaire!”

Marianne comes running out of the door, past her parents, and collides with Grantaire’s middle, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, stiffly, trying to rein in some of the anger. Enjolras is still glaring, and Combeferre is looking between them, quietly.

“Marianne,” Enjolras says, tightly. “Can you please go inside?”

“But Dad…”

“Sweetheart, listen to your father please,” Combeferre interjects. “I thought you were helping Feuilly set the table.”

Marianne disentangles herself from Grantaire, beams up at him gap-toothed. “I have to go help, but I’m _so_ happy because you’re here! I’ll set another place at the table!”

What’s a man supposed to do with that? She disappears back inside, and Grantaire aches, god. At least one person here is pleased to see him. Obviously Enjolras has not said anything to make Marianne hate him, at least not yet. That eases the sting, just a little.

“Look,” Grantaire says before Enjolras can start on the tirade again. “I’m here because you needed to be warned. Montparnasse got away from my team in Paris, fuck knows where they are but it won’t be hard to find out where you live, and believe you me they will be _coming,_ sooner or later. I can go and stay at a hotel, set up a running perimeter. I’ve got reinforcements arriving. After we’ve got Montparnasse, I’ll fuck off and you’ll never have to see me again, okay? But…”

“Reinforcements? You are _aware_ that people aren’t supposed to know mages exist? It’s bad enough I had to tell _you_!”

“Well, considering the fact that when my friends and I were in Egypt, a legitimate resuscitated corpse took out our target before we could, I _don_ _’t_ think they’ll have much of a problem with it. The mages thing makes a whole lot more sense than that.”

“Oh, I know the Hakimi family were theorizing about the uses of corpses a few years back,” Combeferre murmurs, and Enjolras shoots him an  irritated look.

“And the perimeter. We can set it up ourselves. What, Combeferre, don’t look at me like that. Cosette and I are both trained battle mages, we’ll be fine!”

“Oh the joyous sound of Enjolras digging his feet in,” Courfeyrac says, appearing in the doorway. “Look, René, he’s here. I don’t care how awkward it is, but this is a place of sanctuary; it’s dinnertime, I’m sure he’s hungry, and we have a lot of problems on our hands. Time to unite, not divide. Grantaire, my friend, come inside. Yes, shoes off, thank you. How do you feel about tofu?”

“It’s like a flubbery alien,” Grantaire says, shucking off his boots. The black and white hall tiles are cool and there is an honest to god chandelier glittering above his head. It is the _actual definition_ of an entrance hall, complete with a big window above the door which will probably be a security threat. He pretends he can’t hear Enjolras and Combeferre hissing behind him. “But not _entirely_ objectionable.”

“Good. Well, there is chicken sometimes, but most of us are vegetarian at the least. Balance with nature and all. How was your journey?”

“Why are you pretending that I haven’t just crashed your house like the world’s most disappointing meteor?”

“Firstly you’re not disappointing. Enjolras will get over himself. He’s angry, for pretty good reasons, but that’s no reason to self-sabotage. We _do_ know nothing about this Montparnasse individual, so the most sensible thing to do is to keep the guy who _does_ appear to know them around, rather than sticking him in a hotel where he’s no use to man or beast. Also I knew that you were involved, and if you were trying to hide it you wouldn’t have confessed so fast. Basically, because of all that, I’m willing to chalk all of this down to a rather unfortunate coincidence. When are your reinforcements arriving?”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment, trying to absorb that, before realising that Courfeyrac has just asked him a question. “Probably in the morning. I’ll need to text them the address.”

“Okay. I’ll get someone to give it to you later. They can stay here too, plenty of spare rooms.”

“This is…generous.”

“We don’t want Enjolras dead too, surprisingly enough.” Courfeyrac leads him down a small ramp into the warmest, most enormous kitchen Grantaire has ever seen. There’s a big wooden table glittering with cutlery and glasses, and warm, yummy smells rising from the Aga stove set against the back wall. Someone has draped fairy lights around the top of the wall and put lamps in the corner; it’s intimate for being so big, cosy. No external windows, one door, which is standing half-ajar; Grantaire can see packets and tins, assumes it’s a larder. Marianne is already sitting at the table, leaning over to look at the kid from earlier – Gavroche’s – phone. Courfeyrac pulls out a chair for Grantaire, sits next to him. A couple of other people show up, and then Jehan wheels themselves in on the other side of Courfeyrac, takes his hand and weaves their fingers through his. They’re both wearing gold bands, Grantaire realises after a moment.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Jehan says to Grantaire, as though they were expecting to find him there all along. A black guy in a striped apron with a shaved head appears from the larder, kicking it shut behind him, grabs the big pot and hauls it over to the table, gets a stack of plates and puts them in front of Courfeyrac.

“Where are Combeferre and Enjolras?” he says, taking one of the last chairs. “We’re ready to start.”

“Talking,” Courfeyrac lifts both of his hands and one of Jehan’s. “They’ll join us when they’re ready, I think.”

“Cool,” the guy says. “Get on with it, then, I’m hungry.”

“Art cannot be rushed,” Courfeyrac fires back, and Jehan laughs.

“Says the person with the least artistic talent to the exhibiting artist.”

“My stick drawings are _modernist._ ”

“Whatever makes you happy, darling.”

“They’ll be in the Centre Pompidou, mark my words.”

“Courf, dinner.”

“Yes, food!” Courfeyrac closes his eyes, says something in a language Grantaire doesn’t recognise. Nearly every other adult at the table starts laughing, with the exception of Éponine, who ignores them.

“Mate, you’re ridiculous,” the guy in the striped apron says, picking up the serving spoon. “How do aliens come into it?”

“Grantaire thinks tofu is an alien.” Courfeyrac sets a plate in front of Grantaire. “We have a meat-eater in our midst.”

“You’ve had three of us for the last six months, dolt,” Éponine says. “Don’t worry, Grantaire, you’re not alone.” She still looks cautious, as though Grantaire is going to grow three heads and start biting people, but here she seems more comfortable, flanked by one of the empty chairs and a blonde-haired, white woman with perfect posture and a fluffy pale blue jumper stitched with a golden sun. Next to her is a skinny Asian dude dressed in tweed, who looks as though he’s one of those perpetually nervous, sweaty types who jump at their own shadows.

“Cosette, Marius,” Courfeyrac says, picking up his fork and pointing at them in turn, then to the guy in the striped apron. “Feuilly. Guys, this is Grantaire.”

“Pleasure,” Cosette says.

“Gavroche, is your phone eating your dinner or are you?” Éponine asks, shoving a plate in the direction of the kids. “It’s hot, careful.”

“Why are there so many vegetables on it?” Gavroche whines.

“Because vegetables are good for your body.” Marianne takes her plate. “Thank you, Éponine.”

“You’re welcome. Where’s Azelma?”

“Skyping her _boyfriend,_ ” Gavroche says in a tone of deep disgust, and Grantaire holds back a snort of laughter.

Éponine rolls her eyes. “I give up. I absolutely give up. Bloody teenagers.”

“I can make a plate up for her?” Feuilly offers, but Éponine shrugs.

“Thanks but she won’t eat it. She’ll come and scavenge for cereal or something odd at like, midnight. I repeat; bloody teenagers.”

“Three more years,” Cosette says, comfortingly. They break off into their own conversation down that end of the table. Grantaire takes a bite of the tomato and tofu…thing…on his plate. It’s _good,_ really good, and his stomach chooses this moment to remind him how hungry he is. Slow, he thinks, take it slow.

“So Grantaire,” Feuilly says, leaning forward and breaking Grantaire’s sweet romance with his full plate of food. “You’re visiting Enjolras for Christmas?”

“Um, depends on when Montparnasse shows up, actually,” Grantaire shrugs. “Hopefully I’ll be out of your hair by then.”

“Montparnasse?”

“Ah, yes. Update time.” Courfeyrac swallows. “When is it a good time to announce to the company at large that Enjolras is currently being hunted by an assassin?”

“An assassin?” Marianne looks up from her plate. “Like Bucky? Grantaire are you like _Bucky_?”

“Probably when the kids have disappeared upstairs,” Jehan replies. “No honey, Grantaire isn’t Bucky Barnes.”

“He doesn’t have a metal arm,” Gavroche says, in tones of deep condescension. “Anyway, Bucky sucks. Hulk is so much better.”

“No he’s _not_ he’s _boring_ he just _smashes things_!”

“Hulk SMASH,” Gavroche dive bombs his fork onto his plate, and Marianne shifts her shoulders away from him, pulls a face.

“Boys are _silly,_ ” she informs the table at large. Gavroche ruffles her hair, and she shrieks and ducks.

“Gav,” Éponine breaks away from her conversation, gives him a look.

“Yeah yeah,” Gavroche shoves another large mouthful into his mouth. “Can I get down?”

“Can I too? I want to show Grantaire the _piano._ Do you want to see me play piano Grantaire?”

Grantaire makes himself smile for her. “Sure, but I’m still eating.”

“How about you go practise tonight and show him tomorrow,” Cosette suggests after a moment. “Grantaire’s had a long journey, so he needs to sit down for a bit, and we need to have an adult conversation, okay?”

Marianne nods, earnestly. “Okay, Aunty Cosette! Please may I get down from the table?”

“Sure thing,” Cosette says. “Off you go.”

Gavroche gets up, saunters over to the cake tin on the side. “Come on, Gav,” Marianne says from the step.

“Plate,” Éponine says without looking. Gavroche gets slices of cake and spoons and the two of them disappear, Marianne giving Grantaire a wave over her shoulder.

“Right,” Feuilly puts down his knife and fork. “Now that the little ears have disappeared - assassin? What?”

“Yeah. Assassins. Mabeuf, Toussaint, Myriel, now Enjolras.”

“Okay,” Feuilly says, and Grantaire stares, wonders what’s happened that he has such an easy acceptance of this extraordinary turn of events. “So…who took out the hit?”

“Could have been anyone,” Jehan says. “Realistically. Perhaps the Circle, but it’s really not their style. They tend towards the overtly discriminatory and killing mages…that’s not something they’d want to do, not with the Seer. However I saw M. Tholomyes dragging off Gisquet at the last council for something, they had some weird energy signatures between them. Tholomyes…”

“Is a total prick,” Courfeyrac supplies.

“Yes, in essence,” Jehan continues. “Therefore, possible suspect. However, it could be someone from overseas, one of the separatist groups looking to consolidate their influence in Europe before they start looking towards Mecca, perhaps there’s an unregistered elemental wandering around…”

“Hold on, hold on,” Grantaire interrupts. “I’m sorry, I just…the Circle? The Seer? Elemental? I’m missing some key vocab here, I don’t think they teach this in schools.”

“Okay, okay,” Courfeyrac twists to him face him, shoves another spoonful of stew into his mouth. “Guys, you carry on. I’ll give Grantaire the TED talk, get you up to speed. But you have to absolutely promise secrecy on this, okay? Not a word to non-mages. That’s the rule. The golden rule in fact. We’ll have to make sure of your reinforcements too.”

“ _Dude._ Do you need me to like, pinky promise, or something?”

“Now _that_ _’s_ a man after my own heart,” Courfeyrac offers his pinky finger. Grantaire rolls his eyes but shakes it. “Now you know you’ve just signed away your soul in…ow, I was joking!”

“Tell me about mages.”

“Okay, my young padawan. Actually you’re older than me aren’t you, you’ve got an interesting rugged look going. Young people rarely pull that off well. Okay, fine. Mages. Okay, so in the beginning, well no-one actually knows. We have histories and stuff, but they’re still trying to work out whether it was some deity or molecular biology. Combeferre’s very into a project about it at the moment, amongst other things.”

Oh yes, Grantaire thinks, the amazing Combeferre. Of course he would be. Aloud he just makes a noise of understanding. Feuilly glances over, proffers another spoonful of stew to Grantaire who takes it gladly. His stomach is going to cramp like mad tonight but he doesn’t care, this is better food than he’s had in _forever._

“So basically, we have a kind of innate ability to sense things. It varies, and what you can sense _tends_ to be what you end up training in, but say, Combeferre is very interested in everything so knows a little bit of everything, because he’s like that. So it’s not always the case.”

“When you’re trained, you’re able to stop bullets with the power of your mind, then?”

“Oh my god, tell me Enjolras didn’t do that…oh god, he did didn’t he? That man is going to be the _death_ of me…Jehan, honey, Enjolras did the bullet thing again.”

Jehan pats Courfeyrac’s hand. “It’s about time he got back into practise,” they say, reassuringly.

“I hate it when he does things like that.”

“I know. But he’s a battle mage, it’s to be expected.”

“Why are you always right?”

“Because I’m your partner and partners are always right? You need to finish explaining to Grantaire.”

“Yes, yes. Okay. Where was I?”

“Energy? Sounding pretty hippie at the moment, man, just got to warn you.”

“The hippies wish they were as cool as us. It’s like this. Everything has an energy to it, and I literally mean everything – the words I am speaking to you have energy. The room is full of it. It’s like…another category on the electromagnetic spectrum, that we attune ourselves to see. And then depending on your specialisation, you assimilate yourself into a small part of that category, and learn to manipulate it in all kinds of ways. Make sense?”

“What are the ways?”

“Aha, now that’s interesting. There are six classifications. The four most common ones are battle mages, scholar mages, hearth mages, and empath mages. I’m a hearth mage, but I dabble in empath too. Combeferre is primarily a scholar, and Enjolras trained as a battle mage, hence the ability to stop bullets with his mind and move things about.”

“What about the other two?”

“Well, there are paean mages, like Jehan. They do loads of stuff with words, chants, poems and things. They’re much rarer, like I’ve only met two others besides Jehan, and one of those was their mother, so,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “And then the last kind is an elemental mage. They’re probably the most powerful, definitely the most unstable, and we haven’t had one born this generation, thank _god,_ because they tend to be bad news. Understanding it all?”

“Yeah, I think it makes sense. What about Feuilly, Cosette, Marius, and Éponine?”

“Feuilly is a scholar too, and Cosette another battle mage. Marius and Éponine and her siblings are all human, like you.”

“Okay so…”

“They’re partners, and stuff. Marius and Cosette have been together, ooh, nearly two years? And then…ah Enjolras! Combeferre! We were wondering where you’d gone, have some food!”

Grantaire’s stomach clenches, and he has to fight not to throw up. Enjolras takes the chair next to Marianne’s empty one with an easy grace, and Combeferre sits next to Éponine. They take plates from Feuilly and dig in.

“So, now that we’re up to date about assassins and Grantaire knows about mages,” Cosette says. “What’s the situation?”

Jehan explains everything they’ve been talking about with Feuilly, and then they turn unexpectedly to Grantaire. “So, this Montparnasse character. What do you think they’ll do, when they get here?”

Grantaire glances over to Enjolras, who meets his eyes steadily, if icily. “Case out. That’s what we all tend to do. They won’t strike immediately, they’ll get the lie of the land. When my team arrive, we’ll run a perimeter through the town several times a day, try to track them down, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Montparnasse goes off-grid completely. We’ll also need to set up protection around the house…”

“The house is warded,” Combeferre says, mildly. “No-one can get in unless they have the requisite spell, which I will put on you later, Grantaire, if you’re alright with that.”

“Okay, sure.” Grantaire finds himself saying. Spells. Magic. Mages. You absolutely could not make this shit up, that’s for sure, but…he thinks, in the grand scale of things, this revelation is nothing compared to the fucking walking corpse in Egypt. In a weird way, it’s kind of comforting to know that it’s not just guns and teeth and sheer determination standing between him and Montparnasse.

“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” Combeferre continues in a way that doesn’t even sound sarcastic, damn him. “We’ve got to talk about the latest break-ins at the sanctuary.”

“You didn’t mention this,” Enjolras says, sharply, putting down his fork.

“I was going to, but then Grantaire arrived,” Combeferre replies, raising his eyebrows. “In any case, it’s more sensible to tell everyone at once.”

Enjolras looks irritated for a moment, and then it subsides into intense concentration which Grantaire will _never_ admit is as attractive as _fuck._ “Same magical signature as before?”

“Yes. I still can’t place it.”

Grantaire wonders why the hell they’re having this discussion with all the humans here, but Éponine and Marius are listening intently. Feuilly is drawing something in his leftover sauce with his finger but Grantaire bets his mind is going a mile a minute; when Joly starts fiddling with his cane, you know he’s dreaming up like…a way to break into the Élysée Palace or something.

“Tholomyes?” Courfeyrac suggests.

“I know his signature,” Combeferre responds. “And I know you loathe the man…”

“You do as well…”

“Besides the point. Anyway, he’s gone to study in Russia.”

“Where it just so happens there’s a violent magist group operating.”

“Courf, I hear you, but not every asshole we know is trying to bring about the end of the world.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. I really wouldn’t.”

“He seemed…smug, at the last Circle,” Jehan says. “When he was done being offensive, that is.” Then, to Grantaire: “The Circle is like our version of the National Assembly. Courf and I are members, for our sins.”

“So Tholomyes is still on the list.”

“He’s not _been_ here since November…he’s still not here, _fine,_ Courfeyrac, stop glaring at me, okay?”

“Well the obvious answer is an elemental,” Cosette interjects, steepling her fingers under her chin. “Undetectable magic, apparently beyond control…not much can get past Combeferre, so they’d have to be very powerful…” she trails off. Marius shifts a little closer to her and Enjolras meets her eyes and Grantaire wonders what’s happened regarding elementals; sadness slips like a shadow across Cosette’s face – sadness and fury and a deep kind of longing. The air is tight, for a moment, deprived of oxygen.

“Fantine’s fine, Cosette. You know that. We won’t let history repeat itself,” Enjolras tells her quietly, soft for once. Grantaire feels the ache of his words, but oxygen is slowly hissing back into the room like someone punctured a tyre. He breathes, the idea pops into his head.

“Could it be a non-mage who’s found your…whatever’s being broken into?”

“No,” Enjolras says, sharp.

“Just _trying_ to help, jeez, someone is feeling hormonal today.”

“We’ve had e…”

“Could be,” Combeferre cuts in, smooth, giving Enjolras the universal look of ‘stop digging yourself into a hole.’ “Someone with ambient magic who’s drawn to the edges…”

“Primer for the clueless human – edges?”

“All the energy,” Courfeyrac says, “that I was talking about? It ends up somewhere. When moments are missed, steps not taken, things not said…that energy doesn’t have an end-point, doesn’t have a purpose, doesn’t get transformed the way the energy in, say, this conversation is. All the excess ends up at the edges of the world. We can access them through sanctuaries, mostly places of mass pilgrimage. Mecca, Machu Picchu, and Lourdes are some of the biggest. Wardens, like Combeferre, guard access and make sure things stay stable.”

Missed opportunities. Grantaire reckons he must have added a shit tonne to them over the last few months, pining away over Enjolras. “And if they get destabilised…”

“There’s a reason every culture has an end-of-days myth,” Combeferre says quietly. “And they’re quite magnetic places, really. Someone could, conceivably, have had magic ability but no training, been drawn there curious.”

“Not many mages slip the net,” Feuilly says.

“Yes, I know, but it’s possible. It’s not like we have many other ideas.”

Courfeyrac mutters ‘Tholomyes’ under his breath again, and Grantaire decides to find out who this Tholomyes person is and why he’s got Courfeyrac’s knickers in such a twist.

“Valjean is bringing some books from his collection when he comes for Christmas,” Combeferre continues. “That’ll help, if only to try and thicken the wards.”

“Is Father coming too?” Enjolras looks over at Cosette, who grins.

“Yep. Dad managed to persuade him to take to the week off from volunteering. It’s a miracle.”

“A week with nothing to do! He’s going to spontaneously combust!” Courfeyrac gasps and Jehan elbows him and just like that the mood is jolly again, intruders and assassins apparently forgotten. Jehan wheels themselves out from under the table, putting their napkin on their plate and pointing at Feuilly.

“Grantaire does art,” they say. “Make sure he’s not left out. I’m absconding with my husband.”

“Absconding with me, huh?” Courfeyrac gets up too. “Whatever could that be for?”

“Something you may have promised me earlier.”

“You two,” Feuilly says with a pained expression on his face. “Take your ridiculous flirting elsewhere.”

Jehan grins, sparkling. A flower petal drifts out of their crown. “Gladly. Have a good night, kids.”

“Night,” Grantaire says. Courfeyrac ruffles Grantaire’s hair, fist bumps Feuilly and disappears. Feuilly looks back down at his sauce art, which is bearing a passable resemblance to the Mona Lisa.

“I apologise for them,” he says. “They’ve only been married like…ten months or so. The novelty is still wearing off.”

“Sweet,” Grantaire says.

“When you don’t live with it twenty-four seven.” Feuilly sighs. Grantaire then, bizarrely, finds himself discussing the varying merits of the postmodern turn in art, which is so surreal considering that somewhere out in the night Montparnasse is _hunting_ them, but…he supposes, warded house. He wonders whether he should guard tonight, but he’s exhausted and if they all seem fine, then…but the mages don’t seem to have a _great_ radar for self-preservation if you take Enjolras as your sample population. Speaking of; Grantaire keeps feeling eyes on him, keeps looking up from listening to Feuilly wax lyrical about Yayoi Kusama and then the ins and outs of revolutionary graffiti art from WWII to see Enjolras quickly and unsubtly looking away. Fuck’s sake! What’s there to stare at? Grantaire hasn’t grown a pair of wings or a third head. Eventually the clock chimes ten, and Enjolras gets up, looks at Combeferre.

“We need to put Marianne to bed,” he says. “Come on.”

“Okay.” Combeferre finishes his wine. “See you later, everyone.”

They walk out together, shoulders brushing. Enjolras doesn’t look at Grantaire as he passes.

***

Cosette takes Grantaire to his room after dinner and saying goodnight to a sparkly-blanket engulfed Marianne. It’s at the top of the stairs and around the corner, and Grantaire thinks that he could fit his entire apartment back home into it. Someone has put a vase of flowers on the sleek dresser and thrown a huge green checked blanket across the bed. Cosette hovers for a moment in the doorway, and then turns to him, her brow creased.

“Why are you here, really?” she asks, unexpected. He stares at her, willing for his brain to produce some wisecrack but it’s bloody buffering, the data won’t load. Fuck. Anyway, Cosette doesn’t look like the kind of person who’d take well to smart-assery; despite the smile-lines around her mouth and the way she was looking at Marius, she’s badass and it shows. Human rights lawyer, Grantaire remembers. Right. Truth it is.

“Debts,” he says, with a shrug. “I owe him one.”

She blinks, as though that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “Huh. Okay. Mabeuf and Magnon-DuPres, you mean?”

“Yeah. Since he’s so upset.”

“And are you…”

“It’s a job,” Grantaire says, sharply, biting down on the sudden urge to tell her the actual truth, the series of mis-steps that got him here, the loathing that just gets bigger and louder every time he convinces someone they want to disappear, every time he used to pull the trigger on someone’s life. This is not something for anyone other than him to deal with. “Just the same as defending the weak and helpless is. I’m not a good person, Cosette, don’t look at me like that. I’m here because there’s a debt to pay and a threat to eliminate. That’s it, capischi?”

“Yes, I understand.” Her face closes in on itself, cold. “Don’t hurt him, okay?”

 “Ship’s already sailed on that one.”

She ignores him, like most of the women in his life. “He’s…he likes you. For some reason.”

“Not anymore.”

“Men, what are you like?” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Grantaire’s about to say something to that, but she’s gone before he can open his mouth, shutting the door gently behind her. He kicks off his shoes after a second, scooches back onto the bed which is incredibly soft and springy, grabs for his phone, types the name “Tholomyes” into the search bar. It comes up pretty quickly. According to the denizens of Wikipedia…he’s the former editor-in-chief of an extremely right-wing, white supremacy online newspaper. The photo is of a middle-aged white man with blonde hair, a soft chin, and a look of deep condescension. Grantaire checks out the newspaper just for shits and giggles and learns a lot about why some people never _ever_ need to be given a platform. No wonder Courfeyrac hates his guts. Felix Tholomyes doesn’t, however, look nearly competent enough to be invading various important mage sites let alone getting past the bastion of formidable intelligence and calm, terrifying badass that is Yves Combeferre. Perhaps he’s working with someone, Grantaire thinks. He puts the phone back on the bedside table and starts getting ready for bed. In the back of his mind, Cosette says _don_ _’t fuck it up._ Shut up, he says. There’s no way he could have fucked this up any worse. No point trying to build bridges now.

**[to be continued...]**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: fight scenes, mentions of a past abusive relationship. Let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

In the morning he sits and drinks coffee at the table and eats some kind of pancake Cosette left in a pile before heading out to see a few clients. Marius has also gone to his office, and Éponine has left for the coffee shop where she apparently works. She’d given him a look and said, “Your hair is a mess,” as she’d swiped her keys and a cereal bar, her hair falling out of a topknot because of course these people think that running away from a murderous assassin means changing locations and carrying on as normal.

“Like you can talk,” Grantaire’d snarked back before his brain kicked in, but Éponine had given him what very nearly passed as a smile before she’d swished out of the room. Feuilly wandered in and out for coffee, and now Grantaire’s still sipping his coffee looking at plans for the house Combeferre had found for him, marking sightlines, entrances and exits, and trying to ignore the deep conversation Enjolras, Combeferre, and Marianne are having about what to get Grandad and Grandfather for Christmas. Marianne wants to get them a cat. Eggy reinforces the point by stalking delicately across the table, her fluffy tail swishing and nearly overbalancing the soy milk jug before Combeferre grabs her and puts her onto the floor.

At about 10am, there’s the sound of the intercom buzzer going off. Marianne insists on running to answer it, with Enjolras shadowing her carefully just in case, but after a moment she says, “It says it’s Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta.”

“Let them through,” Grantaire says, immediately. “That’s my team.”

He goes out into the drive to wait for them, and a black BMW swings slowly down the driveway, pulling to a halt outside the front door. The doors open and suddenly they’re all spilling out with weapons strapped to legs and black tac gear on, wrapping arms around him. He breathes in the smell of perfume and fuel, and Musichetta says, “we brought you a surprise!”

“What?”

The back door opens and Grantaire’s mouth drops open. “Bahorel! I thought you were still in Algeria, you great bastard!”

“Got back just in time to hear of your ex-partner issues,” Bahorel laughs, slapping Grantaire hard on the back. “Figured I’d come join in the fun. I owe that little shit one, they’ve screwed me over more times than I can count.”

“Get in line,” Musichetta says. “Boyfriend’s got a nice house, R.”

“Not my boyfriend, keep it _down,_ ” Grantaire hisses at her. “Behave.”

“We always do,” she purrs back, then laughs. “Come on, lets get all the kit inside. _Hello,_ you must be Enjolras, I’m Musichetta, these are my groupies, we’re here to see to _all_ your security needs, right this way boys…”

Enjolras is waiting on the top steps, face absolutely impassive, though Grantaire realises that he knows Enjolras so well by this point he can tell that the corner of Enjolras’ mouth is twitching with a suppressed smile.

“I’ll show you all to your rooms!” Marianne bounces up and down with Gavroche loitering and attempting to look as cool as a twelve-year-old boy can in the background.

“Only need the one room, darling,” Musichetta grins.

“For _all four of you_? Beds aren’t _made_ for four people,” Marianne says, in a voice of deep scepticism.

“Just depends how flexible you…mnugh.” Grantaire slaps a hand over Musichetta’s mouth. Why did he even think this was a good idea, they are _far_ too unfiltered to have around children for Christ’s sake, he’s supposed to be the babysitter of the year, not responsible for introducing Marianne to all the kinky shit Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly (with the occasional addition of Bahorel) are into.

“Stop corrupting the small people,” he says. She licks his hand and he pulls it away in mock disgust. “I will remove your pudding privileges.”

“Marianne needs to see that there are plenty of ways to have happy and consenting relationships,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire gives him a look of deep disbelief.

“Happy and consenting they may be, but you do not want your seven-year-old daughter to find out what this lot get up to in their spare time.”

Enjolras shrugs. How he’s managed to raise a small human for seven years is sometimes entirely beyond Grantaire. It’s probably Combeferre. Considering the fact he’s annoyingly perfect at apparently _everything_ this shouldn’t be any kind of surprise. They find the biggest spare room, and Musichetta is just dumping some of the bags when there’s a sound from out in the corridor and Enjolras is saying “out of the way, Marianne, coming through,” and then a second double bed is levitating its way _through_ the double doors which are just about big enough to fit it.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Bahorel says as it advances, followed by Enjolras with his hands up, concentrating. He slides it into place next to the original one, where it hovers for a moment before touching down elegantly. Enjolras’ forehead is beaded with sweat, and he puts a hand up to wipe it off.

“Magic,” Grantaire says to the room in general. There may have been jazz hands.

“What?”

“Mages. Magic. It’s a thing, tah-dah. Remember Egypt?”

“Of corpse,” Bossuet says, and Joly giggles, a little high-pitched.

“That was _horrific,_ go stand in the naughty corner.”

“What naughty corner, we’re guests!”

“The _fuck,_ ” Bahorel says again. Then, to Enjolras, “you can just…do that? How?”

“Physics,” Enjolras says, calmly. “And practise.”

“Man, your kind of physics must have been such fun to learn at school,” Bahorel says, and Enjolras actually manages a small, polite smile. Grantaire looks away. Musichetta has bounded up onto the bed, is busy sorting through her handbag, her black top riding up to reveal the gun holstered at her hip. “You’re not allowed to say anything about this, by the way,” he tells them.

“Babe,” Musichetta looks up. “What goes on between us _stays_ between us.”

“Amen to that,” Grantaire says fervently, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“Grantaire!” Marianne skids in with Gavroche in tow. “Do you want us to give your friends the _tour_?”

“Sure,” Grantaire shrugs. “Come on guys, roll up roll up, the grand tour is about to begin.”

Marianne and Gavroche give them a tour of the house before ending in the library, where the two kids start building some kind of pillow fort. Enjolras settles down with a tablet. Grantaire takes the other four on a quick run of the perimeter, pointing out everything he’d noted on the plans earlier.

“We caught up to Montparnasse in Neuilly,” Joly says. “Found their safehouse and everything, but they wriggled right out from between our fingers.”

“They’ve always been slippery,” Grantaire shrugs, trying to conceal the nervous panic that’s set in at the thought of Montparnasse being on the loose anywhere near this house of wonderful, kind, ridiculous people. “We knew that. It’s not going to be easy.”

“But worth it,” Bahorel says, and Musichetta slips an arm through Grantaire’s left one and Joly through Grantaire’s right one, and he takes a deep breath, grounded by the warmth of them at his sides. “What’s the plan?”

“Musichetta?” Grantaire asks. “Perimeter, excursions…”

“You and Bossuet are the ones who were in the actual military, you’d be better off leading it. But I’m happy to run central co-ordination.”

“Considering you’re our handler,” Bossuet says. “That would be good.”

“Okay, well, boys, how about I go find a room to get set up and you four go and run off some steam, huh?”

They go back to the house and Combeferre shows them to a room that is just a little big bigger than a coat cupboard but has space for Musichetta to squeeze in with her laptop and monitor and headset. Grantaire picks up a few of the in-ear earpieces, hands them around, and they arm themselves; guns and knives strapped under loose shirts and jumpers. Thank God it’s winter and cold enough to layer up.

“You’re not going to get arrested?” Combeferre asks, curiously, “with weaponry like that?”

It feels like a challenge. Grantaire snaps: “Been doing this job over a decade. We know how to handle things.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise,” Combeferre says mildly, stepping away. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, man,” Bahorel slaps a hand onto Grantaire’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”

There’s no sign of Montparnasse in town. They do a thorough search, pretending to be out of season tourists, splitting up. Joly and Bossuet hold hands and do the cooing lovebirds act in one of the cafes, wondering if anyone had seen the _friend_ they were supposed to be meeting. Bahorel and Grantaire do a perimeter of the town, casing out places Montparnasse is likely to hole up.

“I can’t believe this,” Grantaire says as they let themselves back into the warden’s house.

“Patience.” Joly puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s the only way.”

“Yes, I _know,_ okay?”

“No need to bite my head off. I know it’s stressful, but the calmer you stay the more likely you are to get them, alright? It’s not going to happen like last time.”

“I won’t let it,” Grantaire says fiercely. “I don’t plan on letting them get that close.”

“We’ve got this. Let’s set up a guard rota.” Bossuet says. Grantaire tries to make himself believe it.

“Good plan.”

***

Grantaire is on guard that afternoon, pacing around the house. Joly and Bossuet are outside the perimeter, doing sweeps of the woodland for a couple of hours, and Bahorel is inside with Musichetta assembling information about Montparnasse’s latest jobs, their latest tactics, anything that will give Grantaire et al an edge. Feuilly wanders out at one point and disappears into the gardens for a walk, comes back with arms full of dark, glossy ivy. Grantaire shifts on his feet.

“A wreath,” Feuilly says, as he passes. “Enjolras’ parents are very traditional.”

“Ah,” Grantaire replies. There’s been not a hint nor hair of Montparnasse, and every time something creaks, he wonders whether they’re there, watching him, waiting, the way they used to when they wanted to test him. They were always testing him, always suspicious, always making him prove himself, always...no. No, no,  _no._

Another hour passes, and the breeze picks up. He sticks his hands in his pockets. This mage thing is wonderful and all but they couldn’t have developed outdoor heating for their driveway, could they? Not like it’s the Alps – god, he’s not going back there any time soon. No sooner has he had this thought when the front door creaks open again and Enjolras is coming down the steps. Grantaire knows exactly how he walks and is not even going to think about how sad that is, ignores the way his heart flips – eventually it’ll wear off, he knows it will – and keeps looking straight ahead. Enjolras stops next to him, and that’s when Grantaire actually has to acknowledge his presence because there’s a steaming mug in one hand.

“Coffee?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire stares at him for a moment. Coffee. Enjolras has brought him coffee, and something wrapped in a napkin; the hard edges of his expression are rubbed off, softened slightly in the dying light. “You’re on until seven, I checked with Musichetta,” Enjolras continues, slightly awkward, “and Marianne insisted on baking this afternoon, so…”

“Thanks,” Grantaire makes himself say, accepts the mug and what turns out to be a mushy brownie of some kind. He doesn’t know quite else what to say. Surely they’re fighting, they’re…this isn’t what someone does when they’re mad, this is…he takes a bite of the brownie to stop himself saying something ridiculous and moans involuntarily instead when the taste of chocolate and unexpected orange hits his mouth because like that’s even less ridiculous, jeez. “This is awesome. Your sprog can certainly bake.”

Enjolras cheeks are pink again, and he’s looking at Grantaire with something indecipherable in his face. It’s probably just the wind. Nippy out here. “Well, good to see the test run worked. They’re for her grandparents.”

“They’ll love it, I’m sure.”

They fall quiet, but it’s kind of gentle. Grantaire keeps sneaking looks out of the corner of his eye at Enjolras, at the way he looks in that red jumper, his hair all messy. There’s a scrape of brownie mixture on one of his cheekbones; it makes him seem more human, more alive. He fits in better here, Grantaire thinks. Of course, the suits are as gorgeous as anything and sure Enjolras is a brilliant politician but here he has space, time, air to breathe that isn’t the congested staleness of policy and public transport and fluorescent light.

“Why did you move to Paris?” Grantaire asks, after a moment because to be honest, he can’t believe anyone would give a place like this up.

“I got elected,” Enjolras shrugs. Then, because he can never give a short answer: “I’ve always been interested in politics, more than magecraft really. It’s not the done thing, never has been, but there were three mage deputies when I was there, which was record-breaking. And, well, we thought it would be safer, further from the edges.”

Enjolras looks at him, suddenly, and Grantaire feels breathless, feels like he’s just finished a skydive, feels…oh. _Oh_. “I know you’ve overhead some of my phone conversations. The Circle, you know, our ruling council…well, they're traditional. As you might have gathered, we’re not. And Dad, yeah, had a run in with them, before we were born, so they like to haul us up for that too. When I got elected to the Assembly, I brought Marianne away from it all. We were living in over in La Villette, but our bank account got frozen, so I moved over to where we met you. Combeferre was already sworn in as warden, so he couldn’t join us.” Enjolras sighs, brushes his hand through his hair. It just gets more tangled. The light is beginning to bleach out from the sky like a wound, twilight bleeding through the clouds. “And now, assassins.”

“You think it’s them?”

“More possible than any of the other options. The Russian separatist group isn’t interested in France, not yet. They’re too busy fighting a war. The Circle doesn’t like mages getting involved in human politics, but they’ve always said that to our faces – but three of us are dead and I’m being hunted down, well…it’s not beyond the realms of possibility.”

Grantaire sighs, looks down at the brownie, trying to make sense of what Enjolras is doing. Why is he coming out here with olive branches and brownies, why is he even bothering? “If it will be of any help,” he says, after a moment, “the information I got was that Mabeuf was abusing his wife and Magnon-DuPres was selling information to the Russians.”

Enjolras huffs. “God. That’s wrong. Mabeuf knew Dad, never stuck his nose up like most mages do around us. He’d never hurt a fly. I don’t know about Magnon, but I bet it’s misinformation too. No mage in human politics would take such a stupid risk.”

“There were Russian mercenaries at her house. I only just made it out, and well, you know she didn't.”

“Someone hired you. Who’s to say they weren’t hired as well?”

Grantaire stares out at the tangle of evergreen bushes growing in amongst the trees down the driveway. Sometimes cases slip his careful net, sometimes he slips up, gets the wrong person, gets someone killed. It’s the way of the job, the risks he takes, but fuck, what a time for something not to be the way it seems. What a time for him to fuck up like this. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, thinks about changing the subject but there’s one small thing still nagging at the back of his brain. In any case, Enjolras hasn’t done anything apart from look vaguely pensive and sad, which, in a way, is almost worse than the shouting. He wants to take Enjolras’ hand, to apologise, to do anything that will erase all of this and take them back to Paris and the life they were building there, but he can’t. That’s done, now, there’s no point crying over it. He takes a sip of coffee.

 “Why get humans involved? Surely they could just make all of your heads explode and no-one would be any the wiser?”

“Mages aren’t allowed to kill other mages unless they’ve undergone the Trials and been found guilty by both the Circle and the Seer.” Enjolras pauses, intuits the question. “The Seer is elected by all the national Circles to hold each other accountable for things. Killing mages is a big deal. It puts the energy out of balance. An anonymous request and a human assassin are as untraceable as you can get. We could easily have been killed for our politics as much as anything else.”

“Someone didn’t reckon with your grumpy criminal fairy godfather.”

A pause. Then, unexpected: “I was talking to Combeferre, and yes, well. Thank you. For saving my life. I realised I haven’t said that yet, and I apologise for being so rude. I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

And _that_ is something Grantaire doesn’t want to deal with in the slightest. “Nope. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do.”

“You _really_ don’t. Think of it as my penance.”

Enjolras sighs and that’s the noise he makes when he’s about to fight his corner, but it’s very like saved by the bell because right then there are the sound of footsteps. Grantaire straightens up just in case but it’s only Bossuet and Joly, wrapped up in their black tac coats. “I need to go and wash up,” Enjolras says, abruptly, and turns to go. Grantaire takes a slurp of his coffee and wonders if that’s what you call a truce.

***

Dinner is exuberant. Feuilly and Grantaire sit next to each other and continue their artistic discussion. The mysterious Azelma is forced downstairs and spends most of the night being awkward around so many hot grown ups she’s not related to. Grantaire sympathises. Mages are unfairly attractive, or perhaps it’s just the presence they all seem to have, the _aura,_ magnetic and glinting; Grantaire sometimes feels like a stray paperclip hoovered up if he gets too close. He doesn’t even _want_ to know what that feels like coupled to the usual teenage melodrama and self-consciousness. After they’ve eaten and all helped clear up, they go into the big sitting-room library with the piano. Marianne and Gavroche crawl into the pillow-fort they’ve built together, Cosette drifts over to the piano, and people dissolve into little knots of conversation over tea and brandy. Bahorel has a conversation with Enjolras and then wanders over to where Grantaire is sitting, watching the rain through the windows.

“How’s the family?” Grantaire asks after a moment of quiet. Bahorel swills his tea around in the glass.

“Good. Kahina’s got a new boyfriend.”

“Did you disappear the old one like you were threatening to?”

“Nope. She told him to fuck off. You know Kahina doesn’t need my help.”

That she doesn’t. Bahorel’s wife of thirteen years is very like him in many ways; just as open with her affections, by mutual agreement, but even deadlier than Bahorel when crossed, which is saying something. If her last paramour hadn’t come up to scratch, he would have been informed of that fact in no uncertain terms and unceremoniously kicked out of the house. Grantaire fights the smile at the thought. He hasn’t seen Kahina in _far_ too long.

 “And the kids?”

“Ahmed’s loving secondary school, Mustafa is growing like a weed, and Farid has learned to crawl. I’ve got a video of him look, it’s adorable. He’s the best baby in the world.”

“Better than Ahmed and Mustafa?”

Bahorel points a finger at him. “Don’t make me choose between my boys, you bastard.”

Grantaire dutifully watches the video of the third Bahorel junior crawling along a carpeted corridor with a huge grin on his fat little face. Behind the camera, he can hear Kahina cooing in Algerian Arabic. It really is adorable, though not as adorable as Marianne. He tells Bahorel this, and Bahorel laughs.

“You’re so wrong, but she’s a cute kid. He’s alright, too.”

“Who?”

“Enjolras, idiot. Who else?”

“I don’t know, plenty of male-identifying people in this room.”

“You are aware you’ve been watching him all evening, right?”

“Damnit, Bahorel.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“He’s married!”

“And? Maybe it’s an open marriage. Those are pretty cool you know. 10/10 would marry again.”

“Yeah well, I’m not poly, so it’s a moot point, and have you maybe missed the tiny flaw in your plan that he’d never stoop to be with someone like me?”

Bahorel snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Really?”

“One day,” Bahorel says, “you are going to get your head _out_ of your arse, and I am going to laugh _so hard_.”

Grantaire smacks his arm and Bahorel spills tea down his front. Over by the piano, Musichetta starts singing along to whatever Cosette is playing. The rain thunders on the roof, Grantaire watches Enjolras, the world turns on.

***

That night, Grantaire gets woken up by a feeling that something is about to go wrong. He stares at the ceiling, at the weird shadows thrown by the furniture, and it twists sickeningly in his gut that something’s happening that something’s about to…fuck it. He swings himself out of bed, grabs his gun from the bedside table and takes the knife from the sheets, opens the door and tiptoes out onto the dark landing. Nothing’s moving here. He leaves the guest floor of the house, climbs up to the second floor where all of the mages bar Jehan and Courfeyrac sleep, and then suddenly freezes at the sound of thrashing, of a choked-off cry, of a bang – none of it of the fun, kinky kind. Grantaire absolutely knows the difference.

He’s moving before he even realises, down the corridor just as one of the doors opens and Enjolras is silhouetted there, grasping his throat, shouting for help. Grantaire skids to a halt in front of him. “What happened?”

“Person,” Enjolras gasps, face whiter than a sheet. “In my room, pillow over my head, I…”

“Fuck.” Grantaire shoulders past him, into the bedroom, gun raised. The sheets are twisted and one of the pillows is on the floor, slightly dampened in the centre. The window hangs open, and there are indentations in the rug, fading. Grantaire leans out, looks either side, but Montparnasse is not hanging from the vines. He goes back out of the room. Combeferre is in his nightshirt, his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, and Éponine is loitering in a shirt that is far too big to be hers.

“Bossuet and Bahorel were on guard,” Grantaire says, suddenly realising he hasn’t heard anything from them. He wouldn’t put it past Montparnasse to find a way to sneak past them, but he…his feet are moving before he knows it and he runs down the stairs, leaving Combeferre and Enjolras whispering together quietly. Unlocking the door takes a few moments but then he’s out into the crystalline December night and lo and behold, there’s Bossuet slumped at the bottom of the stairs. Fuck, _fuck_ Grantaire thinks wildly, dropping to his knees; Bossuet’s chest rises and falls, thank _god_ , and there’s a lump rising on the side of his head.

“Bahorel!” Grantaire calls, and quickly there’s the sound of footsteps. Bahorel rounds the corner, gun in hand.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Montparnasse was in Enjolras’ room.”

“ _Fuck._ I’m going to wake Musichetta and Joly, we need to get Bossuet inside and run a perimeter.”

Bahorel has never wasted time on apologising, especially when things need doing, and right now Grantaire has never been more grateful for it. He bends down helps Grantaire scoop Bossuet up. The time runs in fits and starts, just the way it always does when adrenaline is rushing through his veins like too much caffeine. Joly and Musichetta are instantly awake – Joly is bending over Bossuet with his medical bag and Musichetta is going straight into their office, begins to wake up the computers. She hands Grantaire an earpiece.

“Get going. I’ll get on this. Bossuet will be fine, he’s had worse.”

He and Bahorel run a perimeter around the wall, snaking off into the trees. About thirty yards from the end of the wall, there are bootprints in the mud, and Grantaire unholsters his gun, jerks his head at Bahorel. Silently, the two of them climb alongside, watching each other’s backs – for all they know, Montparnasse could be up in one of the trees just waiting to pop off a shot. The footsteps climb and climb into the hills and then suddenly disappear at the base of a rocky jut in the hill. Grantaire leads Bahorel around it and down to the side, but there’s no sign – they could have gone anywhere.

“No point going further now,” Bahorel says, grabbing Grantaire’s shoulder when he makes a move to climb the rock face. Montparnasse was _here,_ they were standing over Enjolras and breathing and planning some horrible way to kill him, something involving blood and knives and torture, god, they’ve always liked that one, haven’t they, going slowly, watching their victims scream then beg then whimper, drawing it out, cat and mouse, wielding their power…how _dare_ they, _god,_ they’re a monster, a fucking monster, they were in the same _room_ as Enjolras, they… “Come on. R, stop it, you know there’s no point giving yourself hypothermia. We’ll regroup.”

Grantaire allows himself to be dragged away.

***

Enjolras sits on the sofa turning the rose they’d found between his fingers, trying to tap into the energy signature, but it’s entirely blank. He breathes and breathes, and then takes another breath for good measure. He’d woken up to pressure across his face, wrestled and grappled and then flung out a burst of energy and now he’s sitting in his room with Combeferre and Éponine pressed close on either side, feeling the adrenaline die down and the fear creep back in. The assassin, Montparnasse, had gotten into the house, had been in the _same house_ as Combeferre and Marianne and all their friends, had nearly succeeded. If Enjolras hadn’t woken up in time…no, _no,_ that is not a productive line of thought. He did wake up. He woke up and got rid of the assassin and now…

“Someone must have given them the spell,” Combeferre says, numbly. “That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Do you think…” Éponine starts, and then shakes her head.

“That Grantaire or his friends let Montparnasse in?” Combeferre replies, and that’s the exact moment there’s a knock on the door and Grantaire is coming into the room. Enjolras winces at the look on his face. His hair is a mess, his cheeks and nose red from the cold, and he hasn’t taken off his muddy boots _or_ holstered his gun.

“I heard that.”

“It was a valid question,” Combeferre says with his usual calm. Grantaire glares.

“You’re right, you don’t know me. All I can say is that if I wanted Enjolras dead, I wouldn’t go about it by getting myself and my best friends on protection detail around his house. For that matter, I wouldn’t hire someone el- _what the hell are you holding_.”

His eyes have locked onto the rose. Enjolras follows his gaze down; the thing is nearly fresh, has only been out of water a little while. It was down by the side of the bed, apparently carelessly dropped. He looks back up at Grantaire who has gone pale, taut and stretched, fists clenching and unclenching. “The assassin left it,” he says, hating the way his voice rasps on the way out.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Grantaire says with feeling.

“Is there something the matter?”

“I… _fuck._ ”

Combeferre touches Enjolras’ shoulder briefly. “Éponine and I will go back to bed, unless you want us to stay. The ward is still up, but I’ll start devising a new one in the morning just in case. We should be safe for now.”

“Yes, go,” Enjolras says, still mostly focussed on Grantaire, on the flash of something unnameable that had skittered across his face. Combeferre bends, brushes a kiss to the top of his head, and goes, Éponine following after him with a look between the two of them and a clasp of Enjolras’ shoulder. The door shuts. Grantaire sags onto the end of the bed, puts his head into his hands. There’s a moment of quiet, then Enjolras ventures: “Are you okay?”

“Does it _look_ like I’m okay, Apollo?”

“I’m sorry for caring about your wellbeing, I won’t do it again,” Enjolras snaps, pulling his knees up to his chest, shuddering at the sudden feel of ghost hands around his neck, of energy dissipating fast. Yes, he knows he’s messed up, he doesn’t need entropy to remind him too. Grantaire is very still for a few moments longer – Enjolras has to physically restrain the urge to go and sit next to him, to put an arm around his shoulders and tell him it will be okay, that Montparnasse wasn’t successful, that look! Enjolras is alive! But something keeps him glued to the sofa, watching, the lamplight pooling in the rumpled sheets and spilling over Grantaire’s shoulders. Eventually, Grantaire says:

“They know I’m here.”

“What?”

 “It’s a sign,” Grantaire’s voice is suddenly hollow. “Something they used to leave, a calling card of sorts. Confused no end of investigations, but Parnasse didn’t care. They’ve always been melodramatic.”

Parnasse. He’s calling this assassin a _nickname_ of some kind, they have a secret _sign_ they used: god, Enjolras stares at Grantaire and wonders what _else_ he doesn’t know. It feels like every time something happens, another layer gets stripped away, this man standing in front of him gets further and further from the guy who looked after Marianne, from the guy Enjolras was maybe potentially developing more-than-friendly feelings for. Every time he thought he’d reached the bottom of it, the sand shifts beneath his feet and he’s back to square one. “So you really did know them, then?”

“Jeez, Apollo, have you been listening to a word I said? I know exactly how their mind works, I should have anticipated this, I should have…”

“You worked with them.”

“We’ve established this.”

“I’m sorry, I just,” Enjolras runs a hand over his face, wishing Grantaire would deny it, wishing that he’d say: no, I never worked with this person, no I’m not as much of a ruthless killer, I... “The two of you were partners.”

“Have your ears not been working properly for the last three minutes? Do you need to get them cleaned out?”

“ _Grantaire._ ”

“You look disgusted,” Grantaire says with this awful, self-deprecating laugh, and Enjolras shakes his head.

“Thinking.”

“You’ve got every right to be. It wasn’t pretty. We used to work together, kill together, do whatever we could to make a name for ourselves. Reputations in our field don’t come easily without bloodshed and…”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care. It’s me. This is who I am. Not the snarky artist, not your beck and call babysitter. I’m a murderer. That’s it. I might avoid killing people now, but once you’ve done it, it marks you, brands you. I can’t walk away from it, not ever, it’s _who I am._ I know you think I belong in prison or maybe you could pass a special bill to bring back execution…”

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking. That is _twisted._ ”

“Oh, I’m _so sorry,_ Mr High and Mighty…”

“God, don’t start this.”

“Start what?”

“This whole…sarcastic deflection thing you do, it’s not helpful.”

“Well I’m so sorry but some of us don’t really want the ins and outs of our sordid pasts laid bare for judgement, thank you so very much.”

“Grantaire, I get that, but I need to understand, okay?”

“I need to understand,” Grantaire mimics back in a baby voice, and Enjolras growls under his breath, rubs his hands across his face _._ He stands, paces to the open window. The night air is heavy with chill, brings up goosebumps on his forearms, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Montparnasse climbed in through this window, silently, without waking him. What else might they have done?

“If we’re going to have any chance of catching…”

“Killing…”

“Catching.”

“No, listen. Montparnasse has to die, okay?”

“No-one has to die.”

“Urgh, for once in your life will you _listen_? They regard prison as a minor inconvenience. They’ll get out within the year. If they don’t die, both of us will be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives and god, I know what that’s like so don’t even say you’ll deal with it, because you’ll never be able to leave Marianne without worrying, every shadow will make you jump, every loud sound you’ll think is a gun aimed right at your head…don’t put yourself or your family through that, _please_.”

Enjolras stares at him. He can see what Grantaire is saying, the sense in it, but every ideal, every strand of his personhood is straining away from it, straining away from dispensing justice like some sort of god, like they have _any_ right to that. The state was created for a _reason._ Grantaire is staring at him with something burning in his eyes and what can Enjolras say?

“I still don’t think you should kill them,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Grantaire stands up, says fiercely

“What do you know about any of this, huh? God I should have just ended this years ago, I should have shot them in the head and left them to die, _fuck,_ I never would have got into this _mess_.”

Enjolras feels the words like a rebuke, curls in on himself. “Could you leave?” he says. “I should probably sleep, if we’re rebuilding the wards in the morning.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, but Enjolras turns away, reaches out to shut the window and bar it. The fizzle of something left unsaid brushes gently against his back. After a moment, there are footsteps, and Enjolras sinks down onto the bed where he very nearly died an hour ago and thinks, ‘so that’s what we were to him, just a mess. A mess he got himself into running away from something to do with Montparnasse, a stupid fucking mess, _god_ …’

He lies down, pulls the blankets over his shoulders. Needless to say, sleep doesn’t come.

***

In the morning, Grantaire is avoiding his eyes, and their truce feels as though it’s shattered into glinting, mocking pieces on the floor. Enjolras drinks his coffee and listens to Marianne chatter about how excited she is for Christmas and did Enjolras know that Christmas is in exactly three days? He pretends to not know about this news, laughs when Courfeyrac asks her if she’s _really sure_ Christmas is only three days away, surely that _can_ _’t_ be right. Enjolras and Combeferre were up at six in the morning to re-ward the gates and walls, weaving layer after layer of protection over them. They’d come in to find Jehan and Courfeyrac being disgusting at the breakfast table again, and then he’d had to tell the story, first to them, then to Feuilly and Cosette and Marius, and everyone had gone drawn and scared and demanded to know why he hadn’t woken them up to help, why he’s taking this all so in stride, and oh god, should we all even leave the house today?

He and Combeferre had persuaded them that it was okay, so Cosette had dragged Marius Christmas shopping at the market in town, and the mercenaries had got themselves together and decided to organise an _excursion rota_ whatever the hell that is, and now Grantaire is sitting, all kitted up, sketching on a napkin and refusing to make eye contact with Enjolras, and all Enjolras wants to do is stretch the energy out and go back to Paris, go back to the uncomplicated life of Marianne’s ridiculousness and exasperating colleagues and nursing a crush on his sarcastic artist upstairs neighbour. Bahorel comes in with a big gun across his back, and without a backward glance Grantaire follows him out of the kitchen. Enjolras’ stomach tightens.

After a while, Marianne picks up a book and Enjolras goes to join her in the sitting room with his tablet and all the emails from work, picking up Combeferre’s jumper from the floor and folding it over the back of the sofa. Technically they go on Christmas vacation tomorrow, but he’d emailed in with something about a dire family emergency when they were in Nantes; his office should still function without him. There’s the morning email from Leo detailing all the updates and things he needs to read, and a similar one from Sabrina about what social media has been up to in his absence. Bless Leo and her rampant organisation; she was the best hiring decision he ever made, and he makes a note to bring her back one of Combeferre’s jam pots or a bottle of wine as a thank-you.

After a while one of the mercenaries – Joly, Enjolras thinks – wanders in, pauses when he sees Enjolras and Marianne. “You can come in,” Enjolras says after a moment, not looking up from his tablet. Then, because anyone who grew up in a household run by Jean Valjean and Guillaume Javert has had politeness drilled into them from the moment they learned how to talk: “How’s Bossuet?”

“Oh fine,” Joly shrugs, sits down on the edge of one the armchairs. “Feeling guilty, of course, for letting Montparnasse sneak up on him, but there won’t be any lasting damage. He’s a walking hazard zone, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Is your throat alright?”

“What do you mean?”

“Swelling, sore throat, rasping voice – the effects of strangulation can creep up on you.”

Enjolras appreciates how Joly has switched into English, which Marianne has only just started learning at school. Enjolras gives her a fond look, before angling his body away from her, back towards Joly.

“I’ll be alright,” he says, “the energy doesn’t feel off like an injury would.”

“If you’re sure,” Joly replies in a surprisingly un-sarcastic way. “Thought I’d check.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras looks back down at the tablet and the reams and reams of policy pages, then, well… “You trained as a doctor?”

“And you’re wondering how on earth I ended up in my profession, right?”

“Yes, a little. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

Joly shrugs. “No, it’s fine. Reflects more on society than me, if I’m being honest. Nearly finished med school, was on placement in the terminal illness ward. There was a patient – god, she was so small, I forget how young she was – didn’t have a hope in hell, but they were keeping her on life support. Her family wanted her to go, most of the doctors wanted her to go, but the man in charge was highly religious and said we had to keep her on, so I turned it off in the middle of the night. Spent some time in jail, and when I got out, medicine didn’t really have the same appeal. Fell in with Musichetta entirely by chance, and then we stumbled across Bossuet and Montparnasse and Grantaire about a year later.”

“Wow, that’s…”

“Quite the u-bend, I know. We didn’t do hits for very long at all,” Joly continues, “and they had to really deserve it.”

“I’ve had this argument with Grantaire – about the necessity of killing. I disagree.”

Joly’s cheerful expression slides a little off his face, and Enjolras watches. Joly doesn’t do the defensive thing Grantaire does; it makes it infinitely easier just to _talk_. “Well I’m pleased _you_ disagree, considering you’re a deputy of the National Assembly. Me, well – I stand by what he says. There are some people who just need to die. It’s…yeah. We actually _do_ do private security most of the time now, try to balance out the money making with guarding people from their stalkers and stuff. Anyway. Besides the point, really. I’m sorry about all of this, for the record.”

“You knew Montparnasse as well?”

“Yeah, for my sins. They’re a nasty one.”

“As everyone keeps telling me.”

“Well, let me just say that you’ve survived two run-ins with them now, which is better than literally everyone. Even Grantaire…”

At this point, Joly hauls himself up short and shuts his mouth. Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Even Grantaire?”

“I shouldn’t say,” Joly murmurs, runs a hand through his short black hair.

“Okay.” Enjolras looks back down at the tablet, hears the front door. Marianne gets up on the other side of the room, says something about hot chocolate and Uncle Marius and Christmas shopping and goes. Then, “I won’t pry. But I assume it’s to do with revenge thing Grantaire keeps mentioning. And if it’s something I need to know to protect my family, then I would appreciate it, but I understand if you can’t tell me.”

Joly looks pained for a second, starts fiddling with his nails. “Yeah, I…well. I don’t know how much he’s told you.”

“The roses.”

“The roses,” Joly repeats. “Well…oh god, I’m just going to say. But don’t tell anyone okay, not even your partner.”

“I promise.”

“Montparnasse nearly killed Grantaire. No-one knows why – perhaps they got jealous, perhaps they thought Grantaire was going to leave them, I don’t know…they were together, by the way, for a while…yeah, well. They went off on a job, as normal, and the next thing Bossuet, ‘Chetta, and I know is that Montparnasse is in the hospital and Grantaire’s disappeared off the face of the earth. Took us three years to find him. Montparnasse kept hunting him down, breaking into his rooms, trashing them, and leaving a rose as a sign of their passing, so he kept moving.”

Enjolras feels all the blood drain from his face. Montparnasse has been _following_ Grantaire… _god,_ what else is he going to find out? Joly is watching him, carefully. “He’s getting better now. It was never a very healthy relationship to begin with, no, that’s an understatement, it was fucking abusive from the get-go, but…well, it does a number on you, being betrayed like that. Abuse or no abuse. Grantaire was in pretty deep.”

“Have they…when…”

“Oh,” Joly frowns. “No. He lost them, about seven years ago. It wasn’t a recent thing, at all. Montparnasse has just realised that Grantaire’s involved in this, hence the roses again. They’re trying to freak him out.”

“ _God,_ ” Enjolras says, not knowing what to feel, how to…that is beyond the pale of awful, explains a lot about why Grantaire’s been so insistent about the danger Montparnasse presents. Part of him just wants to pull Grantaire close, never let him _go._

The front door clangs and there are footsteps in the hall. Joly gives Enjolras a look, and says: “Don’t do anything to hurt him, okay? He’s been hurt more than enough.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, head still trying to absorb all this new information. Joly is about to get up when there’s a voice shouting:

“Enjolras! ENJOLRAS! Where are you?”

Enjolras has only ever heard Combeferre sound so panicked once, when Marianne was a tiny baby and very sick with the colic. He bolts to his feet; Combeferre is standing in the doorway. Somehow, Enjolras knows what he’s going to say before he says it, but the words still feel like a hand grenade, shrapnel exploding deadly in the air.

“Marianne’s missing,” he says, and the world

 just

stops.

***

“What’s,” Grantaire starts but Enjolras is already half past him, nearly out the front door. He stops at the sound of Grantaire’s voice, wheels to face him.

“Have you seen Marianne?”

“No, is she….”

Grantaire doesn’t need to finish his sentence. The look on Enjolras’ face is terrified, and Grantaire stares at him for a second. “I’ll get the others,” he says. “We’ll search, we’ll…”

In that second, there’s a noise from inside, a clanging bell that Grantaire hasn’t heard before. Enjolras wobbles slightly, and Grantaire reaches out a hand to steady him, finds Enjolras’ fingers wrapped tightly around his. They’re warm, slightly dry, and Grantaire grips them, tries to control his breathing. Focus. Panic is going to get him absolutely _nowhere._

“It’s the sanctuary alarm,” Enjolras says, numbly. “Now of _all_ the times.”

Combeferre appears just inside the front door, Éponine holding onto his hand. “Sanctuary,” he says. His eyes are red, his face set.

“You need to go sort this out,” Grantaire says. “Seriously. Go and get it done. You might catch the bugger this time if you’re quick.”

“Grantaire!” Bahorel jogs up to the front steps. He’s holding another red rose, the petals slightly crushed, and Grantaire’s vision hazes out for a second, he has to remind himself to _breathe,_ god, body, oxygen is a _good thing_ we _need_ oxygen. Could today get _any_ worse? What’s Montparnasse going to _do_ to her?

“Montparnasse,” Enjolras says, quietly, and then he’s striding back inside, towing Grantaire with him. Bahorel follows. The others are emerging out of wherever they’ve been searching, drawn by the alarm from their studies or unpacking their Christmas shopping or whatever.

“Right.” Bahorel obviously sees the look on Grantaire’s face, the shock and terror and frozen what-the- _hell_ -do-we-do and takes charge. “She’s not in the house, unless there’s some secret hidden place we don’t know about. It’s likely Montparnasse has her because of the rose. Is there any magic you can use to track her down?”

“Only strong empath mages can do that,” Courfeyrac says, hollow. “Hypothetically, they could latch onto her emotional energy and follow that, but I haven’t trained enough in empath to be able to do that. No-one else here does that kind of magic.”

“Okay.” Bahorel folds his arms. “Since that’s the case, you’re going to go and deal with whatever’s setting that alarm off…no, don’t look at me like that Enjolras, I’m a father too, I get it, okay? Joly, Bossuet and I are going to go into the woods and town and try and track Montparnasse. Grantaire, you’re going with the mages.”

“It’s extremely dangerous for a non-mage to be at the sanctuary with us,” Feuilly says. “Especially if we have to fight.”

“Don’t care. You need someone to watch your backs whilst you deal with the intruder, just in case it’s been Montparnasse all along or some shit like that.”

“What about us?” Éponine says, indicating herself and Marius, who is hovering, paler than usual, by the foot of the stairs.

“Batten down the hatches, help Musichetta, be ready with the vehicles if we need you. Best thing you can do is keep yourselves and the house safe, so we don’t have to worry about you, okay? Come on, people, move it.”

The inertia crumbles into action. Courfeyrac follows Musichetta into the office, comes back out with an earpiece. Grantaire sees Éponine leaning up to kiss Combeferre behind Enjolras’ back, feels something hot and painful twist in his stomach before clamping down on the feeling. Now is not the time. Marianne is counting on them.

He goes into the office, sticks an extra knife in his boot and makes sure he’s got enough ammo, ties a black scarf over his hair to keep it out of his face. When he comes out, Enjolras is standing there in the milling crowd in a red robe with little mirrors and sparkles sewn into it, the expression on his face like death. In a moment of madness, Grantaire steps forward and wraps his arms tightly around Enjolras’ middle. Enjolras returns the hug, and Grantaire presses his face into Enjolras’ shoulder, breathing in the smell of that floral ethical cologne he uses and cotton and something sharp and smoky at the same time, something _burning._

“We’re going to get her back,” he vows. Enjolras tightens his arms, and then lets go.

***

The sanctuary itself is not the famous grotto where some 19th century schoolgirl discovered the power of hallucinogenics and saw the Virgin Mary. It’s set further back in the hillside, a nondescript slit in the rock higher than the one Bahorel and Grantaire tracked Montparnasse to the other day. There are more footprints in the December mud, layered over each other; if Grantaire squints, he thinks he can see small ones too, little girl feet.

“Marianne might be here,” he whispers to Enjolras, who gives him a terse nod before gesturing at the crack in the cliff. Everyone else has gone inside, Courfeyrac carrying Jehan because of course no wheelchair is going to fit in there. Grantaire takes a breath and slides in. For the first ten metres or so, it’s tiny and dark and the rock is centimetres from his face, but soon enough it opens out into a huge cave, disappearing right back into the hillside. There are glowing stones on the floor, red and flashing. Chills run up and down Grantaire’s spine at the sight of them, and he wonders what on earth they’re going to do. From the intakes of breath, the looks on everyone’s faces in the gloom they’re obviously not supposed to be here. Feuilly raises a finger to his lips, then points at the edges of the cave, to the rocks standing sentinel around the mirrored pool in the middle, and everyone finds a place to hide. Grantaire chooses the rock right near the entrance and ends up being next to Enjolras. He’s crouched entirely still, staring at the rock, his fingers clenching and unclenching. There’s no sound, apart from whispers of inhalation and exhalation; perhaps that’s because Grantaire knows how to listen. One of the red stones is blinking inches from the edge of their hiding place.

“What are those?” Grantaire breathes.

“Don’t know,” Enjolras mouths back. “Nothing good.”

They settle into the silence, and Grantaire closes his eyes, centres himself, clears his mind just the way he does before a hit, or before a mission. Fatalism. They might all die. Dying is okay. Dying…might hurt, but heh, who knows what will happen. God. He’s had enough of the unknown already, he doesn’t _need_ or _want_ to die.

Footsteps, splashing. Ugly laughter. A motion, and Combeferre stands, walks deliberately into the centre of the entrance, plants his feet in the pool. He’s wearing a long, blue ceremonial robe, stitched with little gems that wink in the light of his lantern, just the same as Enjolras’. Grantaire will be anything it’s not just a lantern. “Who’s there?” he calls. It’s a brave move, to be that exposed, Grantaire thinks, grudging. He glances over at Enjolras, who is pale, his face entirely set in hard lines. His mouth is moving, too quickly for Grantaire to hear what he’s saying. “As warden of this sanctuary, I command you to show yourself.”

There’s a moment of stillness, absolute stillness, and then a figure steps into the light, flanked by three others. The light falls on his face; boyishly handsome about twenty years ago, straight blonde hair, a round nose. Enjolras draws in a sharp breath that says, ‘I know this person.’ It takes Grantaire a moment to place him, but ah. Well. That complicates things. He senses rather than sees Courfeyrac, behind the next stone along, stiffen.

“Hello, Warden Combeferre. Good to see you again.”

“Tholomyes,” Combeferre says, implacable. “Blachevelle. Listolier. Famueil. Good afternoon to you. What are you doing here? You know the sanctuary is closed without prior permission from the warden, and since you have not filed any of the relevant paperwork with me, I must assume you are here for either a very good reason _or_ a malicious one. Trespassing on the sanctuaries with malicious intent is reason to call the Seer. You know that as well as I.”

“The permanent secretary of the Circle doesn’t need permission.” There’s a hint of bluster in Tholomyes’ voice.

“The members of the Circle are not above the laws they put in place. Indeed, they should be the ones to follow it to the letter, since they set an example for the rest of France’s magefolk.”

“Well, there was a little problem, you see, and we didn’t want to bother you. Terribly busy man you are, running your little research project, caring for your family.” Tholomyes laughs, and disgusted shivers crawl, gooey, up Grantaire’s spine. He’s not even bothering to _try._

“Well, if it’s a little problem, perhaps you’d like to explain the thewstones? They certainly weren’t there when I was here yesterday morning.”

Tholomyes’ lip curls up, and his little pack of minions gather themselves closer together. Add microphones, Grantaire’s brain supplies, and they look like some washed up boyband doing a reunion tour no-one cares about but they need because they’re all stony broke. Evil Asshole Boyband, couldn’t sell out a stadium if they tried.

“Simply an experiment,” Tholomyes says, in a deeply condescending voice. “You’d understand the value of science, my good man, wouldn’t you?”

“Thewstones were outlawed for a reason.”

Tholomyes’ mask drops so suddenly it’s amazing he was keeping it there in the first place. “Oh come off it, Combeferre,” he snaps. “Don’t play these little games.”

“I’m not playing _games._ I believe _you_ are meddling in things that are far beyond your comprehension.”

“We comprehend them better than you do,” one of the others says from behind Tholomyes. The ends of his hair are sparking. Grantaire can’t see his expression from here but he bets anything that it isn’t pretty. “We’re not _scared_ of power, Warden Combeferre.”

“Then you are entirely foolish,” Combeferre returns. How the _hell_ is he sounding so calm? “Fear is a good thing to know.”

“And that is where you are wrong. Fear is nothing but a barrier holding you back from glory.” Tholomyes raises a hand. “Don’t you want glory, Warden? Don’t you want more than a life running away from the Circle and all the strictures they’d impose on you?”

“No,” Combeferre says, firmly. “And I’ll give you one last chance to leave with your lives.”

“Oh, but you’re going to let us leave,” another of the goons says. He shoves a small body with cornrows and bound hands forward into the light of Combeferre’s lantern, and Grantaire’s heart stops dead in his chest. Marianne’s face is wet with tears, and Grantaire can see her saying “Pops, Pops!” through the gag they’ve put her in. Monsters. Fucking _monsters,_ may they all rot in hell, may they…beside him, Enjolras looks like he’s about to move, to run forward and grab his little girl; Grantaire has to grab his arm, hating himself, to shift him back.

“Wait.”

“But Marianne.”

“I know, _I know._ You’re just going to make things worse if you act without thinking. We’ll get her.”

Enjolras nods, stiffly, but his hand finds Grantaire’s again, and Grantaire lets him squeeze it, tries to breathe through the guilt and the pain of seeing Marianne cringing away from the bad guys, crying…he nearly misses what Tholomyes says next. It hits him a second later; Montparnasse, the rose…but Marianne is here, with these fucking…were they working together? Is that how Montparnasse got into the house?

“Release her,” Combeferre is saying. “How dare you…”

“Perhaps you should look after your daughter better. Stop leaving doors open. It’s a bad habit, you know.”

“The house is warded.”

“Oh, Warden Combeferre, when you’re an immigrant there are just _things_ you don’t know, aren’t there? You’ll never have enough time to find out all the secrets of the Eyrie.”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Combeferre says methodically, his voice colder than the Arctic Circle.

“You’re going to let us go, or she’s the first victim of the thewstones,” the goon says. “See how long the little mage lasts.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Combeferre ignores them, addresses Marianne. “I’m going to get you free, just do exactly as I tell you.”

“Does she even know what a thewstone is?” Tholomyes asks lazily, putting a hand on Marianne’s shoulder. She cringes away from him.

“Don’t you dare.”

“See, little girl, your Daddy is too scared to even tell you what they are! Well, have a look, why don’t you? Go on.”

“Marianne, don’t touch it,” Combeferre warns.

“Oh touch it. Touch it if you want. You can be our _fuse,_ can’t you, saves one of us having to sacrifice himself. So convenient.”

Grantaire’s blood runs cold. All this posturing…it’s for nothing. They’re just stalling for time, they’re playing, toying…exactly the way Montparnasse used to. God, perhaps this was all their idea. Perhaps they’re here now, watching. Grantaire cranes his neck around as quietly as possible, but can’t see them, can’t…

“Fuse for _what_?”

“See, Combeferre, this is where you need to start thinking outside the box. Thewstones don’t just _destroy_ reality, they can reshape it. This device lets us control reality from right here, forever. We become the gods. We can make _anyone_ do what we want them to and no-one will notice a _thing_. Go on, Marianne. Start the process. Make the leap. I know you’re a brave little girl, aren’t you?”

Grantaire shudders, knows his expression must mirror the absolute horror on Enjolras’. Combeferre’s face twists, and after a moment, he taps his fingers against his arm three times. Beside Grantaire, Enjolras shifts onto the balls of his feet, glances up at the rock, measuring. “Be ready,” Enjolras murmurs. “Get Marianne.”

“Okay,” Grantaire whispers back.

 “I’m going to give you one last chance to do the right thing. Release my daughter and step away from the thewstones, or by everything that’s holy I will _make_ you.”

 “You and what army?” Tholomyes folds his arms, sneers.

“This one,” Enjolras says, straightening up from beside Grantaire and jumping onto the top of the rock that shields them. “Marianne,” he says, “run.”

She ducks out from under the goons’ hands, is sprinting as fast as her legs will carry her; Tholomyes flicks his wrist and sends her flying onto the floor, but Grantaire is there, scooping her up. He holds her close and ducks back behind the rock. Feuilly, Cosette, and Courfeyrac have appeared from their hiding places too, and all around them hell is breaking loose.

He unknots the gag around Marianne’s mouth, slices through the binds on her wrists and cradles her to his chest as she starts crying, burying her face in his neck, her arms a vice around his shoulders. “Hey,” he says, as gentle as he can make his voice. “Hey, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, stay there, okay? It’s okay, petite grenouille, it’s going to be okay.”

Grantaire hasn’t been in anything bigger than a skirmish since he was with the army, and he’s pretty sure guns and bullets are useless here. The world has exploded into bursts of colour and light that flash and change too fast for Grantaire to even watch them. He closes his eyes against it all, against the ebb and flow of pressure; he doesn’t know who’s winning or losing, what’s happening. Earlier, he saw Combeferre and Feuilly dart off in the direction of the trail of thewstones, down the dark passageway that leads to god-knows-what. There’s barely any sound apart from rhythmic chanting coming from where Jehan is hidden, and every so often, clipped orders from Enjolras. It goes on and on and on. Time bends and twists. Grantaire is alternatively boiling hot, freezing cold, pricked with pins and needles. He breathes through it all, focuses on each molecule entering and leaving his lungs. It’s okay. It’s okay, there is a magefolk battle going on right there, right behind this rock and he’s got a sobbing seven year old in his arms and nothing makes sense right now. It’s so unlike his usual role to sit back and let someone else handle it, but this is what he has to do and…he opens his eyes just in time to see a shadow dart past and that’s when he knows. This is it. This is what it’s been about – the roses, the trail, the strangulation, the kidnapping…and here they are. Just like he thought. Wouldn’t be like them to miss out on the game of the _century._

They haven’t seen him, he realises, as they scale the rock next to where he’s sitting. It’s quite easy to do with the battle going on, and the dark shadow he and Marianne are hiding in but oh fuck, that’s the gun that’s… “Marianne, honey,” Grantaire whispers. “I need you to go and sit by the door, okay? Stay out of sight and don’t come out unless one of us gets you, okay?”

“I…I…” Marianne hiccups.

“I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be okay. End of the line, remember?”

“End of the line,” Marianne whispers back, wiping her tears off her face. “Okay.”

“Good girl. I’m proud of you. Go.”

He doesn’t turn to see if she’s gone, just shifts his weight up onto the balls of his feet and slides over to the rock, begins to climb it. Montparnasse notices at the last moment, but Grantaire is too close, knocks the rifle out of their hands. It lands with a clatter near the edge of the flexing energy mass in the centre of the cave. What a thing it is, Grantaire thinks as they lunge for him, to be face to face with someone once-beloved, someone who tied you up and put a gun to your head and laughed and laughed as they pulled the trigger, working through the blanks, playing games because _games are the best fun in the world, don_ _’t you know that, R?_

They fight. There aren’t any words for this, for slipping-sliding off the rock and landing hard on his feet, his knees jarring, for vicious kicks and blocks, for staring at that face, so beautiful still in the flickering magelight, for the dance that fighting Montparnasse has always been – cycling though their steps, sure that the other person will be there exactly when you need them. Grantaire’s muscles scream, his head pounds, but they keep going – elbows connect with dull thuds, there’s a trickle of blood running down his chin, but he doesn’t feel the pain, doesn’t feel _anything,_ fuck…

“You’re out of touch, old man,” Montparnasse taunts. “Can’t catch me!”

He grabs a handful of their hair, wrenches their head back and they struggle, kicking him hard in the shins. He curses, his grip falters, and then they’re free.

“I’m going to hurt them,” they say, gleeful in the way they always have been. “I’m going to hurt them and kill them one by one, slowly-slowly, and you’ll watch and beg me to end their suffering and maybe I will or maybe I won’t, and I’ll save the little girl till last, until it’s just you and her and then maybe you’ll beg forgiveness, maybe I’ll be lenient and let you come back to me, if you’re good. Maybe I’ll let you live, when they’re all gone.”

“Bitch,” Grantaire hisses, and then he’s moving again and his hand is coming down but Montparnasse is not there, they’re behind him, their legs around his waist. He promptly backs into one of the rocks, crushing them and they scream, tighten their arms around his neck. The mage fight is making them both weaker, reckless. Montparnasse’s arms tighten around his throat. He claws at them, bites, bucks them off. They hit the floor with a crunch and a scream. _Good,_ Grantaire thinks viciously. He pulls out his knife, stomps hard on their leg.

“Surrender,” he says, hauling them upright and holding the knife tight to their throat. One of the mages shouts, and the room goes freezing again.

“I thought you loved me,” they say, in the tiniest, most pitiful voice.

“Once,” Grantaire tightens his grip. They lean their head on his shoulder in a parody of a lover’s embrace, their hair dark and loose and silky. “Once, I thought I did. I know better now.”

“Oh,” Montparnasse says, their body going limp, and then they’re stabbing something into Grantaire’s thigh, and wriggling free. He’s dropped to his knees, the pain agonising. They’re going for their gun, and he reaches out, closes his hand around their ankle and holds on with grim determination, pulls them closer.

They kick him, hard, just above where the knife is embedded and he whites out for a moment from the pain. The cave returns seconds later, the cold stone floor seeping through Grantaire’s tac gear. He hauls himself up, slow, every step agony. Montparnasse is standing between the stones, the gun back in their hands, blood dripping from their arm, aiming into the cloud of buzzing that has engulfed the mages, the endless drawn breath. Grantaire sees a flash of gold hair, the tensing of Montparnasse’s back muscles and all sensible, conscious thought abandons him. He throws himself at them, twisting their bodies so Montparnasse’s head comes down hard on the jagged stone floor and the gun goes off and he’s lying there, stunned, and then and then and then…

…he

…drifts…

……. slowly…..

……………..…away………….

***

Faces, through treacle. Black, sticky, treacle and buzzing. Why are there bees in treacle?

“Grantaire! GRANTAIRE! Can you hear me? Grantaire!”

“He’s not responding, shit, there’s a lot of blood…”

“Someone get outside, phone an ambulance…”

“I’ll do a rune, it’ll keep him stable until we can…”

“Feuilly and I will stay with the captives, don’t worry just go…”

Sinking again, rising and falling and the one constant is Enjolras’ voice, over and over again: “Grantaire, stay with me, please stay with me, it’s okay, we’ve got you, we’ve got you, I’m not leaving, I’m…”

“Don’t be sad…” Grantaire tries to say but it barely comes out and then he’s sinking again and there’s nothing but the bees and the falling and he thinks that all these years, Terry Pratchett has been lying to him about what Death is like…

 

***

He’s sitting in the waiting room on the sofa, with Marianne on his lap and Combeferre’s arms around them both. Cosette is sitting on his other side, holding his free hand; Éponine is perched on a stool, watching them all, her arms wrapped around herself. Grantaire’s been in surgery for the last two hours. Breathe in, breathe out, Enjolras says to himself. Whenever he closes his eyes, he goes back to the cave, to the final burst of energy that had sent Tholomyes clattering unconscious to his knees, to Marianne’s screaming and turning to see Grantaire lying half-on top of a very dead Montparnasse with blood pooling around him, his chest barely rising and falling and he’d thought the world had ripped the floor from under his feet when he’d seen Marianne in the hands of those _monsters_ but this, this…Grantaire, _Grantaire_ …

Marianne shifts and presses her face closer into his shoulder. He has no idea how to help her; they’ll have to do something, there’s no way she’ll take being kidnapped and watching her babysitter/best friend be shot totally in her stride – in fact, he’d be very worried if she did. Perhaps Marius’ therapist might be a good person to go to – he already knows the family, knows Cosette, worked a minor miracle in helping Marius with all the issues related to his transition and his awful grandfather.

There’s a creak at the door, and Enjolras turns to see the surgeon, still in scrubs but with no apron or mask standing in the doorway. “Family of Monsieur Lucien Grantaire?” she asks.

“That’s us, yes,” Combeferre says when it’s obvious Enjolras can’t make his mouth form the words.

“All of you?”

“Yes. He’s got a lot of people who love him,” Combeferre shifts. “What’s the news?”

“He’s going to make a full recovery,” the surgeon says, and Enjolras feels all the wound-up waiting inside him crumble into dust; he presses his face into Marianne’s hair. Breathe in, breathe out. Crying isn’t going to help anything. “He was very, _very_ lucky, and the EMTs got him here just in time.”

“Will we be able to see him?”

“We restrict it to immediate family post-op, no more than two people. If you tell me who, I can send a nurse down for you when we’ve got him set up in his room.”

“That’s you and Combeferre,” Cosette says gently to him. “We’ll take Marianne home.”

“Are you sure?” Combeferre asks.

“Yes, of course. Marius is going to need help with all the legal stuff we’ve got to do with the Seer, and it’s better to get Marianne back to something like a normal routine, yeah?”

“You’ll be okay to go with Aunty Cosette, darling? I’ll be home soon.”

“Yeah,” Marianne says in a very small voice.

Enjolras presses a kiss to the top of her head and lets her wriggle off his lap, hug Combeferre and go over to Cosette, who picks her up. Éponine gives Combeferre a kiss, and then the three of them disappear. Enjolras starts twisting his hands together, but Combeferre gently takes one, smooths his fingers over Enjolras’ hand.

“He’s going to be fine. You heard the doctor.”

“I should never have put him in this position in the first place.”

“Grantaire’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions as I’ve no doubt he’s told you.”

“He can, but without me he’d be…”

“What? Still running away from Montparnasse? Lonely and cynical and self-loathing? I’ve spoken extensively to his friends, you know.”

Enjolras sighs, and Combeferre presses closer. “Look. I know you were feeling betrayed and like you didn’t know him and he turned out to be different to what you’d expected, but that’s _okay,_ you know? People have different layers and faces they present to the world, and what’s to say Grantaire isn’t just as much as the asshole you’re in love with as the criminal you’d rather pretend didn’t exist? People are huge and complex, and the point of being in love is to choose to learn and grow with that person. So I don’t know how you’re feeling right now, and I’m not going to make you talk about it but think. Give it a chance. He might surprise you.”

“Or he’ll disappear, like he keeps talking about.”

“You’re not going to know until you find out,” Combeferre says, and that’s the moment the nurse comes in with a smile.

“Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Combeferre? We’re ready for you.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his cheeks, and stands, Combeferre steady at his back. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, we’re ready.”

***

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Coming back to consciousness is also like wading through treacle. His eyes squelch open, his mouth is all dry and furry and he knows he’s in a hospital because of the smell and suddenly he’s flashing back to Le Cabuc and the beating and the gloating and the fact that Le Cabuc never went down for nearly beating Grantaire to death, but Grantaire got kicked out of the army for even trying to make things even. Oh justice, what a harsh mistress you are. But he’s not twenty-four and suffering from “just a joke gone too far, I swear, sir, swear on my life.” He’s not. He flexes his fingers and his toes. Someone shifts in the chair next to him, and then a voice is saying: “Pops, Dad, I think he’s waking up!”

And then Combeferre’s voice is drifting over too; “Okay, well how about you and I go find the doctor and leave Dad with Grantaire for a bit, alright? I know, sweetheart, you’ll be able to talk to him later. Yes, okay. We can get cake or something. No I don’t think Grantaire can eat cake right now, but he’ll be able to when he’s better, okay?”

Footsteps receding, and then Grantaire realises there’s been a hand in his, all this time, and then Enjolras is leaning over him, that little dent between his eyebrows that says he’s worried or angry or stressed or a mixture of all three. Grantaire swallows, feeling the dryness in his throat like a sandpaper, coarse and unforgiving. “Hello,” Grantaire rasps. “What’s a gorgeous guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Never, _ever_ do that again,” Enjolras says, fiercely. His eyes are suspiciously shiny looking, and if Grantaire weren’t so woozy on painkiller drugs, he’d be worried. If anything, all he thinks now is that Enjolras’ eyes reflect the light in a very pretty fashion, and he could stare at them all day because they might be turning into butterflies and he’s got to find out. _God,_ his throat hurts.

“Going to give a man a drink of water before you eviscerate him, Apollo?”

Enjolras laughs, but it’s watery, and he squeezes Grantaire’s hand again before lifting the cup and straw to Grantaire’s mouth, helping him take a few sips. Some dribbles down Grantaire’s chin, but Enjolras just wipes it away, gentle, his fingers lingering.

“What happened?”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Montparnasse. You were busy fighting Tholomyes and you didn’t see and,” it all crashes back over Grantaire at once. “I had to do something. They’re…”

“Dead, yes. But please, _please_ don’t try and sacrifice yourself, _ever_ again. Your life is worth more than that.”

“You haven’t even said thank you. Ungrateful.”

Enjolras looks horrified, but Grantaire gives him a smile that is probably half a grimace, and the horrified look fades and Enjolras looks like he wants to cry again. “You’re right. Thank you. I’m very appreciative to be alive. But…why?”

Why? Grantaire barely knows. He remembers first meeting Enjolras, and all the ways they clashed: the kale and the preachy judgement and the political tirades. When he thinks about it, Enjolras is quite a ridiculous human being. He finds himself laughing, and it feels like floating. Damn but these are good drugs they’ve got him on. When did this ridiculous, abrasive thing between them turn into this, into Grantaire in a hospital bed, because he threw himself in front of a bullet meant for Enjolras? I’m just a little bit hopelessly in love with you, he thinks, and watches Enjolras’ eyes go wide. Not that it matters. It never matters. All he does is hurt people, and all they do is leave. Montparnasse left him. His parents left him.

“I’m not leaving you,” Enjolras says fiercely. It’s kind of sweet. “None of us are. What about your friends? Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta? Bahorel?”

Grantaire tries to shrug, and find his muscles aren’t obeying his orders right now, so settles for a weak hand wave. It pulls at the catheter.

“They’ll leave one day,” he mumbles. “Everyone does.” It was a nice dream, though – thinking maybe he’d get to keep Enjolras. Imagining the fairy tale. Falling in love with the gorgeous guy downstairs and his adorable daughter and finding, just once, a tiny bit of joy in life. He's going to miss them when he leaves. He's going to miss them _so much,_ these people who made him forget the awful things he and Montparnasse did together, who made him forget that Montparnasse came out of that apartment, their hands covered in blood and hugged him close and said, ‘it’s okay, love, I understand, not all of us are strong enough to do what needs to be done,’ as though he was the weak one to walk out from whatever torture they’d concocted for that particular victim, and two weeks later had him tied up in an abandoned warehouse with a knife in their hand and a gun at his temple…

He looks up and Enjolras is crying, tears sliding silently down his face like trails of crystal reflecting the light, dripping off his chin. Grantaire tries to catch one before remembering, right, all systems are down, muscles currently unresponsive.

“It’s okay,” he tries to say. “Why are you crying?”

Enjolras’ mouth is making shapes but Grantaire really has no idea what he’s saying because there are butterflies _everywhere_ now and a woman with brown skin and a nice smile is leaning over him, checking his tubes. After a moment, the sound comes back, and the doctor is saying something about more morphine. Enjolras’ hand is still in his. “Don’t go,” he slurs, as the doctor’s face is replaced with Enjolras’.

“Don’t worry. I’ll stay right here,” Enjolras says. Grantaire nods, and closes his eyes.

***

When he wakes up again, Marianne is sitting where Enjolras was, buried in a translated copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, because of course your average seven year old reads Tolkien for a laugh. He couldn’t be prouder of her if he’d tried. He shifts and the stitches pull and he winces. “Where are you up to?” he asks, after a moment, and she lowers the book, gives him a wobbly attempt at a smile.

“The Council of Elrond. It’s a Christmas present. Pops let me have it early.”

“Where _are_ your parents? Surely you shouldn’t be unsupervised in a hospital.”

Marianne gives him a look like _‘now you’re choosing to act like a grown-up,_ ’ which, to be fair, touché. “Dad’s at home because Pops and Grandad and Grandfather made him go to sleep. Pops just went to the bathroom.”

“Yes, sleep. Sleep is good.” Grantaire tries to lift his head. “There should be a lever somewhere there, Marianne – could you lift the back of the bed a bit?”

She finds it and helps him sit up a little bit, and then hovers, the book upside down on the side-table. “You okay?” Grantaire asks, and she sighs, shuffles closer.

“You’re not going to die?” she says, all in a rush, “because there was a bang and you were bleeding _a lot_ and then there was the person who took me away and Pops says that they’re dead, and I…”

“Come here,” Grantaire says, and she climbs onto the side of his bed, very careful of his tubes. “I’m absolutely not going to die. I promise.”

“Dad says I have to see a therapist.”

“Dad’s right, you know. It’s good to talk about things.”

“I talked about things to the bad guys and they slapped me and told me to shut my stupid mouth,” Marianne says in a very tiny voice. Grantaire feels a flash of rage, hugs her closer as best he can without messing up his stitches or anything.

“That was entirely idiotic and very brave, and I am very proud of you for standing up to them.”

“Pops says the Seer’s been called. I hope they go to prison for a long, _long_ time.”

“They will if your family have anything to do with it.”

“Our family,” Marianne corrects. “They can be yours too, if you want.”

“If you say so,” Grantaire says, his stomach tightening at the thought of having to leave her, having to abandon her after all this. God, he doesn’t want to go, but it’s the only way – he can’t stick around here forever darkening Enjolras’ door. He’s about to say something else, but Combeferre appears then, leaning against the door and smiling at the two of them. Grantaire manages a smile back, but he keeps thinking about Éponine and he’s sure it seems entirely false.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Combeferre says, in that gentle way of his. “How are you feeling?”

“Less woozy. You?”

“I’m glad. Yes, it’s fine. Enjolras is strictly confined to bed until he has more than three hours of sleep, so I’m afraid it’s just us today.”

“Marianne said. I can’t believe you betrayed me like this.” Grantaire pokes her side, and she giggles, but it’s short-lived. She is quieter than before, and god, he hopes this therapist is a good one; if Montparnasse weren’t already dead, he’d kill them for doing this to her, for taking away her sense of safety. No little kid should have to go through something like that.

They talk about Christmas, and Marianne is a warm weight at his side, and then they have to go because visiting hours are up and Pere Noel needs a shoe to put some little gifts in. The nurse changes his dressing. Grantaire lies back and tries to sleep, but this time, his chest aches – from the bullet or from heartache, he doesn’t know. Sleep doesn’t happen for a long time.

***

Enjolras and comes to get him in the Van Gogh Van a few days after Christmas. They’ve been in and out over the last few days, dropping by or coming to hang out. Enjolras has been here more often than not. Now, he keeps giving Grantaire looks, which is highly suspicious. As they turn down the forest road towards the house, Grantaire says:

“Spit it out, Apollo.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t believe in anything.”

“I believe in you,” Grantaire says before his brain catches up with his mouth, watches Enjolras blush for some inexplicable reason. They turn into the driveway, crunch down it back towards the house, and then the front door is opening and Marianne is running out, followed by Combeferre. Grantaire tells himself the squeeze in his chest is the leftover bullet. Enjolras operates the ramp, helps Grantaire into the wheelchair the hospital provided, and starts to wheel him across to the house, but Marianne puts her arms gently around his shoulders.

“Happy Christmas! You’ve got to come in and see all the presents we saved for you!”

“Presents?” Grantaire stares at her.

“Yes! Because you weren’t here on _actual_ Christmas and Pops said we couldn’t bring them to the hospital!”

“Kiddo, that’s…” Grantaire’s about to say ridiculous, he doesn’t need presents, he hasn’t celebrated Christmas in _years,_ but adds, “ridiculously sweet of you, you didn’t have to.”

“They’re all books she wants you to read,” Combeferre laughs, ruffling Marianne’s hair. “Come on, darling, let’s get Grantaire inside before he catches a chill, huh?”

Inside the house, the door to the sitting room is propped open and there’s a huge Christmas tree decorated with a hodge-podge mix of decorations. People are all hanging out in there, on phones or reading books, and piano music drifts out. “Do you want to say hi to everyone or get settled in your room?” Enjolras asks, wheeling him into the kitchen.

“Room, probably,” Grantaire admits. “I’m already exhausted.”

“You’re going to be for a while.”

“Who knew getting shot in the chest was so inconvenient?”

“Grantaire!”

Marianne skids in a second after them with a wrapped something in her hands that she deposits in Grantaire’s lap. “Happy Christmas!”

“Thank you, Marianne, that’s…”

“Marianne!” A tall, East Asian man with deep lines around his eyes and mouth and thick streaks of grey in his hair appears in the kitchen doorway with a phone in his hand. He’s wearing a very smart blue jacket and tie. “Your grandparents are on the phone.”

“But I…” Marianne glances over at Grantaire, her face falling.

“Go talk to Grandmere and Grandpere,” Enjolras says, easily. “Grantaire’s going to have a rest, but he’s excited to open your present later.”

“Yep, I definitely am.” Grantaire smiles at her, and she smiles back, and then takes the phone from the man’s hand and says something into it in a language that isn’t French, wandering off back into the hall. The man stays there for a moment, and Enjolras sighs, goes to put the kettle on.

“Father, this is Lucien Grantaire. Grantaire, my father, Guillaume Javert.”

Grantaire feels himself shrivel up a little under Javert’s direct, stern gaze, decides not to say something idiotic and flippant. He can see exactly where Enjolras got his ‘don’t mess with me’ look from. “Good to meet you, sir.”

“Good to meet you too, Grantaire. Thank you for saving René’s life.”

“You’re welcome, I guess?”

That gets a slight upward curl of his lips, which Grantaire counts as a victory.

“Will the two of you be joining us for tea?”

“Grantaire’s having a rest,” Enjolras says, putting two tea mugs and the pot onto a tray. “I’m just going to get him settled in the other ground floor bedroom.”

“Fine,” Javert says. “Valjean’s cooking tonight, so I’ll make sure he does something you can eat, Grantaire. Is there any advice from the hospital?”

“There’s a pack in my bag,” Grantaire shifts in the chair. “Joly will be able to help. He went to medical school.”

“I shall ask Monsieur Joly, then. Have a good rest.”

“Thanks.”

Enjolras wheels Grantaire past the staircase to a room right at the back of the house. It’s smaller than the one he was in before, with long green curtains and the desk tucked away into a little nook. “He likes you,” Enjolras says, after a moment, helping Grantaire onto the bed.

“Shocker. Wouldn’t have thought a retired police officer would have much time for an ex-assassin.”

“…”

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

“And no-one is planning on telling him. I mean, even if he did, you’ve saved my life twice now, so I think that would change his mind. He’s very protective of me and Cosette, and he’s very fair, so…”

“Well, that’s me, parent-charmer until the end of my days.”

Enjolras just smiles, starts to pour the tea. Grantaire shifts against his pillows, flexes his fluffy-sock clad feet. They’d been a gift from Musichetta when she’d come to visit with Joly. Joly’s present had been to poke around at his tubes and quiz the doctor endlessly, which she’d borne with amused patience. He scrabbles for a topic of conversation, accepts the tea. “Marianne seems happier.”

“She had her first session with the therapist yesterday, so…”

“No longer scared of the front door?”

“No longer scared of the front door. We’ll find someone in Paris, too. I’m so beyond _furious_ at Tholomyes for daring to think he could…he…”

“Have _you_ been to see a therapist, Apollo? Cause perhaps that’s something you should look into.”

“Combeferre beat you to it. We go with Marianne, together.”

“Aww.”

“Do _you_ need to see one?”

“Me and shrinks do not get on.”

“Grantaire.”

“Don’t give me that look, that’s the look that you’re planning something and _I do not like it._ ”

Enjolras perches on the end of the bed, takes a sip of the tea, and then puts it down on the floor. Grantaire can’t stop his eyes tracing the curve of Enjolras’ back, the tangle of his hair, the way the lamplight is mirrored, glowing, in his skin against the dull winter daylight pressing through the window. After a while, the silence starts to fizz a little, and Enjolras leans forward, something odd in his face. “Do you remember what happened just after you woke up?” he says, his voice perhaps not as steady as it usually is. Interesting.

“Considering the fact I was as high as a kite, not particularly,” Grantaire shrugs, then winces. “Ow. I do remember wondering if your eyes were going to turn into butterflies.”

Enjolras snorts. “Random.”

“That’s medication for you. Perhaps I have a butterfly fetish.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.” It’s one of those flippant things that slips out of Grantaire’s mouth before he realises he’s said it. He snaps his mouth shut. Bad mouth. Why?

“About that.” Enjolras is looking kind of nervous again. He puts his tea mug down on the floor. “You said that.”

“Said what?”

“That you were in love with me. I…was it just the drugs?”

Grantaire _stares_ at him, feels his heart thunder like the stampede in The Lion King. Enjolras’ expression is so uncharacteristically open, his blue eyes are shining, and Grantaire doesn’t _have_ to be a mage to feel this _thing_ humming between them, tense and questioning and open-armed. He could bluff, he could bluster, he could do what he always does and defend himself but where’s got him so far? Nearly dead more times than he can count, killing people for money and drinking away the guilt, waiting until the end-of-lesson bell rings on his life and he can finally shuffle off this mortal coil. This isn’t what he wanted out of life, he thinks, not years ago, not when he was young and hopeful and joined the army because he wanted _more_ than a dead-end sales-assistant job and a life stuck in a little provincial town with nothing waiting for him. Enjolras is looking at him, and asking if Grantaire is in love with him, and Grantaire gathers all the tattered remains of his bravery close, thinks, I nearly died for you, there’s no point lying now. It doesn’t matter that Enjolras is married and has his whole happy-families shindig thing; Grantaire owes him the truth. “Yes. I mean…I am in love with you.”

He takes a deep, unsteady breath. Strangely, the world hasn’t ended. He feels light, buoyant. Whatever may come of it, his last secret’s out, finally he’s free of having to lug everything around with him, dragging his baggage behind him like a human snail. He dares a look up at Enjolras, who is looking at him with an expression that Grantaire can’t put his finger on. In classic form, Grantaire goes to fill the silence with more words.

“Well, I suppose the whole being-shot-in-your-stead thing gave it away. Sorry. I’ve been trying not to, I know it’s not fair with you being married and all – I know nothing can come of it. But I don’t want to lie, not anymore.  And…”

“Married, I what…”

“And I totally get it if you and Combeferre never want to see me again because I…” Grantaire continues, doggedly, trying to get the words out, to cushion the inevitable, kind rejection, to ready himself…

“Grantaire.”

“Really tried not to be a homewrecker, you’re a really wonderful family but you know…”

“Grantaire, _listen to me_.”

“I’ll just disappear so you don’t have to deal with all the awkwardness and…”

Enjolras slides closer, takes Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire stops, stares at him. “What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ talking about?”

What? Grantaire’s just poured out his heart, and this idiot hasn’t even been _listening_? Enjolras’ skin is warm under Grantaire’s fingers, warm and gentle and he runs his thumb over the back of Grantaire’s hand in a way that does not _at all_ feel platonic.

“Weren’t you listening to me? I’m in love with you but you’re married!”

“I’m married?”

“Yes! To Combeferre!”

Enjolras stares at him, and then starts to laugh, lets go of Grantaire’s hand to press his fists his eyes, doubling over with the force of it. Grantaire’s never seen Enjolras laugh this much before, _ever._

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “Enjolras, this is not funny, Enjolras _why_ are you _laughing_?”

Eventually, he manages to regain some kind of composure. “I’m not married, nor will I ever be married, to Combeferre,” Enjolras says, and the surprise of that hits Grantaire like a dumper truck to the chest. His heart twinges to politely remind him it’s injured. He stares, something other than fear beginning to unfurl in his chest, something unexpected and unfamiliar.

“What?”

“God, I never explained, I just…urgh. Combeferre’s my twain. It’s mage-speak for a magic-partner, someone who just – _gets you,_ I guess, someone who’s magic just _works_ with yours. A platonic life-partner, often. Magefolk households tend to centre around a pair of twains, and then whatever romantic relationships they choose to have or not have outside of that. Traditionally, it’s a pair of romantic married couples living together as one unit.”

“So he’s not cheating on you with Éponine?”

“Cheating? No!” Enjolras laughs again. “Éponine’s his girlfriend. They started going out in May.”

“You’re…I…I’m just…sorry…”

“You know, I’ve never seen you this lost for words before. It’s rather sweet.” Enjolras shifts closer, and Grantaire gathers up his hope in his hands, tries to remember that he’s been breathing for thirty seven years, it’s rather inconsiderate of his body to conveniently forget that _now._

“Processing. Processing, buffering, loading. So, the others…”

“Well, we’re untraditional, as you’ve probably gathered. Courfeyrac and Jehan are both married and twains, which is generally very frowned upon. Cosette and Marius are dating, but she hasn’t found a twain yet. Feuilly is interested in neither a twain nor a romantic partner.”

“And Marianne?”

“Combeferre’s niece. Her parents died when she was tiny, so we adopted her because Combeferre’s parents had already moved back to Dakar, and we were closer.”

“Oh my god.” Grantaire swallows, hard.

“What?”

“So what you’re saying is that if you were an alien life-form and I was some kind of…I don’t know, sciencey probe thing, we’d be the ones that _just_ kept missing each other?”

Enjolras laughs, again, his eyes bright. “Considering the fact I think I’m falling in love with you, yes I think it that’s a relatively accurate metaphor, as they go.”

“Could you repeat that?” Grantaire asks, barely daring to believe that his ears are working. Please say this isn’t a fever dream. Please say he’s not hallucinating this, Enjolras serious and blue-eyed and watching him with such care, such open-armed _feeling,_ Enjolras loving him back…oh _god,_ what on _earth_ has he done to deserve this?

“Me being an alien?”

“No, the love part.”

Enjolras leans forward on his knees. “Lucien Grantaire, I am falling in love with you. Maybe you’ll rethink your plans to disappear back to Paris?”

Grantaire stares and stares at him, at the lines of his face, once just beautiful, now beloved and familiar, this man whose life he’s saved _twice,_ now, this man who thinks he’s good and trusts him with a daughter, and makes him laugh and cares, cares _so much._ This man thinks he’s falling in love with someone like _Grantaire_? Maybe the world is ending. Grantaire couldn’t care less.

“Well, I’m obviously convalescent and unable to go anywhere at all right now,” he murmurs. “But if you come over here and kiss me… I guess I’ll consider sticking around.”

Enjolras shuffles closer on the bed, leans forward. His eyes are so close, electricity-blue, sparking. Their noses brush. Grantaire can’t believe this is happening, but it is, and suddenly they’re kissing and it’s only gentle and careful, but it’s just perfect. Enjolras draws back, slightly, and Grantaire stares at him, wondering how this can make him feel even higher than fucking _morphine._

“You know, an ex-assassin boyfriend is going to do _so_ much good for your public image as the next President of France.” he says. “Ex, you know. I’m quitting. The whole thing.”

“What are you going to do instead?” Enjolras’ smile is slow and definitely the most phenomenal thing in the entire fucking _universe._

“Art. I think. Feuilly gave me some good ideas.”

Enjolras leans in, mindful of all the bandages, slides a hand into Grantaire’s hair, a smile thrumming against his mouth. “Lucky for me then that an artist boyfriend is _perfectly_ acceptable.”

“Whoever would have guessed? Maybe you were right to be optimistic about the world after all.”

Enjolras presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I knew you’d agree in the end.”

**[THE END]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was a wild wild ride, and I really hope you enjoyed it! As always, thanks to Marie, without her this never would have happened. Also apologies to our flatmates for all the times you came downstairs and we were sitting on the kitchen counters headcanoning at the top of our lungs and completely ignoring your existence.
> 
> Cool other things that inspired this work:  
> Montparnasse was very inspired by Villanelle from the BBC's Killing Eve. If you want an intense psychological thriller to watch with a fabulous and utterly ruthless villain, go check it out! Other spy shenanigans were inspired by The Night Manager, too.  
> Book wise: the magic stuff was a mixture of this essay I'm writing about enchantment (go post-structuralist cultural geography!) and Terry Pratchett. Who is awesome. And hilarious. And then a lot of the way I structured mage families was inspired by bell hooks' "All About Love" which is an incredible read as well. I also name-dropped KJ Charles in the first chapter: she writes queer historical romance (+ mystery murder shenanigans), beautifully written and plotted, and just argh! Available as e-books, I believe, but if you don't know her check her out, they're incredible. The book Enjolras talks about in the first chapter is also real - The Lightless Sky by Gulwali Passarlay is a chronicle of his year's journey to the UK from Afghanistan as a child refugee. It's harrowing, but, I believe, an extremely important read, especially as certain factions in certain countries are on a dehumanising spree (especially concerning refugees and migrants) at the moment (she says, glaring at the Home Office menacingly).
> 
> There will be many more fics and ficlets in this universe. If there is anything you want to request or see, then please let me know, I'd be happy to take ideas! Final note: currently sunny in my corner of England, hope you all are having lovely days and if not have hugs from a random person on the Internet if you want them :D.
> 
> P.S. My Tumblr is @barefoot-pianist. Come say hi/squeal about revolutionaries with me <3


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